The Detoxify Draught
by ladyofsilverdawn
Summary: Harry suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder & finds support from an unlikely source. Story will include NONCON & SLASH. I want the plot & pairing to be a surprise. If you really want to know, check my profile for a spoiler-filled synopsis. This story will have it all, mystery, drama, action, dark comedy, & plot twists. Not for the faint of heart. Smut & happy ending too. WiP.
1. Prologue

**I do not own anything within the Harry Potter Universe; everything created by J. K. Rowling is owned by her and her contracted associates. No money was or will be made from this work.**

The prologue and chapters one through two, and six have been beta-read by the lovely MyFirstistheFourth.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue:<strong>

Mud splattered boots weave soundlessly through dense foliage and over rocky terrain. The smell of ozone permeates the air and a distant rumble raises goose bumps on pallid skin. A dark-stubbled face tilts up when the soft beat of rain begins to fall on the forest canopy above. Climbing over a decayed tree, a man spies a group clad in dark robes and instinctively ducks.

As rain runs down his neck and beneath his collar, the wizard places the tip of his wand onto his temple and whispers, "Crescendio." He scrunches his brow and grits his teeth. His booming heartbeat. The stomping steps of an iridescent beetle making its way across his hand. The forlorn cacophony of birds surrounding him. He covers his ears in a futile attempt to control the deafening confusion. Piercing-fern-colored eyes narrow on the assembly ahead; he wills his hearing to focus. Like tuning to a proper radio station, chaos turns to clarity. He startles and falls to the ground when a crisp lilting voice strong with emotion echoes in his mind.

"…was beyond courageous. I saw him for the first time during the Sorting Ceremony. He was such a slight, pale boy. In my Transfiguration class, I watched him grow diligently in knowledge; I knew he would make something of himself. One distinct memory I have of him was when he handed a brown and crumbling lily to Ms. Evans. He then pulled out a bottle and before I could stop him, placed a single drop on it. The blossom bursted into life; its petals turning a bright yellow." Pursing her lips, they twitch into a smile. "He earned Slytherin ten points for creativity that day. I should have given another ten points for love because it was clear that he cared dearly for her. Severus lost his way but found it again. I am honored to call him a Hero of the Second Wizarding War…"

The concealed man, his fingers clenching around his wand, lifts his arm and wipes tears intermixed with rain from his cheeks. He swallows a mouthful of air trying to gain control of his breathing.

"…wished his ashes to be scattered in a peaceful location. Draco, if you will."

Draco looks down at the jade urn wrapped in his arms. His nostrils flare as he swallows; Adam's apple bobbing sharply. Managing to not drop the small jar due to his trembling, he places it in Headmistress McGonagall's hands. She removes the silver lid and hands it back to the teary-eyed young man. "With great sadness, we say goodbye Severus." The Headmistress hovers a wand over the ashes and with a wave sends them swirling into the ether.

Peaking above the crumbly moss-covered log, the sopping wet man uses his fingers to clear away droplets that have gathered on his eyeglasses. He watches the spell umbrellaing the ceremony site shimmer and fade. Cracks as guests disapparate echo the thunder until two lone figures silhouetted by subdued light remain. A stately woman places a wand into the hand of her remaining companion, and says, "As per Severus' will, I'm leaving his wand in your care, Draco."

Head tall and looking her in the eyes he replies, "Thank you, Headmistress."

After the last two funeral attendees disapparate away, each with a snap of sound, Harry, crusted with grime and gravel, leaves his hiding place and resumes his climb towards the mountain clearing. He walks till the toes of his worn boots dangle over nothing but air. Reaching into an inner pocket, he pulls out a picture of Severus and his mother, Lily Evans. The photo, warm from his body heat, is stained and tattered, but his bloodshot eyes could clearly see a gangly little boy and a beaming little girl. They smile, run around, and then the youthful eyes of his former Potions Professor widen when she wraps her arms around him in a playful hug. Before the glossy piece of paper becomes too water logged, Harry's long fingers lets the strengthening wind pull it from his grasp.

Gazing up into the rainfall, he says, "I believe Mum must have forgiven you Severus. I've—" Harry closes his eyes, licks his lips, and swallows. "I've failed you…and so many others. I hope beyond the veil you are allowed to forget the betrayals and disappointments in life." Gazing down into the plummeting ravine he shouts, "I hate that you are another person I'll never get to know!" After scraping moisture from his face with his woolen sleeve, in a softer voice he says, "I'm so tired of it all." Harry stands for a few minutes in silence absorbing the gloomy vista before him. He takes a deep shaky breath and continues, "I've felt stuck, but I'm ready to move on. I'm sor—" He leans forward.

A howling gale from below sweeps up on Harry. He gasps and flies backwards landing heavily. Sprawled on the stone ground in a shocked heap, the winded man feels a breezy tendril tickle his left cheek. He closes his eyes enjoying the sensation till he hears a loud splash behind him.

"Harry! Where have you been!"

"H-Hermione?"

"Ron, tell him how worried everyone has been!"

"Yeah, mate. Mum's been beside herself. Did you hear the time wrong?" Ron pauses a moment and stares down at his friend. "Uh, Harry. Why are you laying on the ground covered in mud?" Harry closes his eyes and rotates his head from their concerned faces.

Hermione kneels next Harry and covers his hands with hers. "Harry, are you alright?"

Harry's fists tighten for a second, and he forces out a gust of breath. Turning his head back around with a crooked grin, he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. You're right Ron. My ears still ring a little from the war, and I must have heard the wrong time." He forces out a laugh.

Hermione glances at Ron and then helps Harry to his feet. "Come on. Let's get you out of this dreary weather."

Harry catches a fleeting look at the gray horizon before he allows himself to be apparated away.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

"No. No! I beg you. Please stop," sobs a woman covered in dirt and gashes; blood slithering down the sides of her naked immobile body and dripping onto the dark-stained rosewood table below her. The swirling oval patterns of the wood grain mimic the indifferent eyes of those sitting around the massive furniture piece. A mix of cold stone and ornate, intricately carved paneling encircles the gathered Death Eaters and their prey.

Rising to his feet from one of the high-backed-cushioned chairs the tall man's lipless mouth opens in a wide grin. His silken robes, looking like ink running down his body, pool on the inlaid floor and reflect the candlelight from a jeweled chandelier above.

The man's attire rustles as he bends his bald head towards the woman. When she feels his warm panting drawing closer to her ear, her body tenses. She grips her eyes shut and holds her breath, not wanting to inhale the stale stench which creeps from his mouth. Cool bone-white fingers seize her face and squeeze. She opens her lids, and he captures her gaze.

With short erratic breaths, she pleads, "Please, my lord. Mercy. Mercy."

Hovering over her, he hisses, "You need not worry about your virtue. No one here would dare desire to sully their bodies in such filth, but you _will_ have the honor of serving a great purpose." The Dark Lord lifts his wand and with a graceful swish heals her wounds and cleanses her body.

His arms spread open embracing the room. "I have decided to officially inform the Wizarding World of my beliefs in a manifesto. And your mudblood body will be a suitable instrument to achieve my goal."

Sliding his fingers down his wand, now holding it like a quill, his outstretched hand begins to write in the air. Flowing script slowly cuts into muscle on the thrashing woman's face and continues down her neck.

After her screams had diminished into whimpers, and her blood lacquered the table, Lord Voldemort asks, "Do you still believe in your hero, Harry Potter, my dear?" Chuckling he continues, "Is he going to burst through those doors at any moment and _save_ your inconsequential life? Answer me!"

The pale woman whimpers and softly replies, "Harry will s—"

"Suffer! And then—_Avada Kedavra_!" A shriek of laughter accompanied by murmurs and claps of approval follow. Gliding back to the head of the table, his fiery coal eyes glowing with amusement, he commands, "Travers, be sure to hang her body in a well-_traversed_ location." More quiet laughter fills the drawing room.

Face blank, Travers responds, "Yes, my Lord."

Eyes glinting in glee, the Dark Lord asks, "Did you enjoy the show Harry?"

Harry gasps awake; his heart racing. Sitting up, his fingers slap to his forehead but no pain radiates from his scar. He sighs in relief. The nightmare was only a memory. So many horrific memories. He shudders and pulls his soft blankets up to his chin. The war veteran made it a point never to trouble another person with the details of what he endured. About the sick game Tom played with him once the madman knew of their mental link.

As his pulse pounds in his head, he glances to his left and huffs. Ginny's side of the bed lies empty and cold. Glimpsing out a leaded-glass window that overlooks the countryside, he could see the hushed glow from the rising sun.

Harry groans and droops his head in defeat. He tosses the covers from his body, rolls out of bed, and crosses his arms over his chest already regretting the loss of warmth. Shivering, Harry grabs his robe from a wall peg and shoves the tattered fabric onto his body, he speaks the ancient word _Ora_ in his mind. Half-past-six flutters through his consciousness. Shite! He has less than thirty minutes to get ready.

His fingers knock over an empty glass as he reaches for his wand laying on a well-used antique nightstand. Wand firm in hand, he braces himself and shouts,"_Off_." All at once, his robe flies back onto its hook; his t-shirt shoots above his tousled head landing in an open hamper, and his pajama pants and boxer-briefs plummet to the hardwood floor. After kicking off the clothes cuffing his ankles, he sprints to the lavatory and turns the shower knob blasting on the water.

Harry swats the shower curtain aside and climbs into the porcelain tiled stall. A short breath catches in his throat and hisses out. Darting his scarred figure away from the scalding stream, he adjusts the water to a comfortable temperature. With his right hand, he seizes and hovers a soap bottle over his left palm; glossy liquid overflows and floods onto the black-and-white tile below. A swear word rebounds off the dripping walls and clover-hued eyes squeeze shut. Harry grits his teeth and manages to keep his callused feet from sliding out from underneath him. As he scrubs his body, the soft suds rinse away the remnants of his Friday-night bender. Harry, feeling refreshed, wrenches the dial and stops the warm flow.

Faint lines shimmer on his right arm when he pushes it past the edge of the curtain into the building dawn. Harry pats his hand on the counter until he feels the familiar shape of his wand. As droplets glide down the well-worn holly rod, he casts a hot-air charm, drying himself off.

Jumping from the enclosure, Harry snatches his wife's hair brush. Without looking, he sweeps the bristles through dark locks that trail down to his shoulder blades. From a clear crystal dish, he places a small white-and-blue-specked breath-remedy tablet into his mouth and chews. Moving his tongue over his teeth and gums, he savors the resulting cool tingles.

Harry runs to his closet and yanks out the required undergarments, a pair of black leather pants, and a gray jumper. He also grabs his Ministry issued drab brown auror robes which had been flung over the back of a corner chair.

After putting on his outfit, he catches his index finger pushing at air near the bridge of his nose. Snorting, Harry once again thanks the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for correcting his vision. He shoves his feet into Horntail-hide boots before leaving the room.

Soles coated with dried debris scrape steep narrow steps as Harry marches down from the landing. He enters the kitchen and spots his wife wearing her dark green quidditch robes. Scarlet hair twisted in a tight bun crowns her head. While she pours two cups of tea, steam drifts toward the copper-sheeted ceiling.

Staring at her back he states, "You could have let me known I'd overslept."

Raising a beverage in each fingerless-gloved hand, Ginny turns around, and an emblazoned talon on the front of her uniform catches the light. Her plain lips tense together, and she sighs, "I'm not your mother, Harry."

Under his breath, Harry mumbles, "Yeah, you're only my wife."

Her outstretched arm jolts and retracts. Ginny backs away a step, turns around, and thumps one drink on the embroidered tablecloth. Walking to the far side of the bruised table, she collapses into a cream painted chair covered in scrapes. As gloved-palms and weathered fingers nest the blue china, she inhales the scent of herbs and fruit. Closing her eyes, her chapped lips take a sip of the semi-opaque drink.

Nose flaring, Harry stomps to pick up his own cup. As he starts striding towards a tall oak cabinet, her amber eyes squint and back straightens. Her freckle flanked glower follows his every move. When he opens the framed pane of glass. When he pulls out a bottle of Blishen's Firewhisky. And when he fills his cup to the brim.

Feeling her glare stabbing into his back, Harry slams the door shut. He twists around sloshing the strong liquid over its rim and yells, "What!"

Eyes filled with scorn, she mutters, "Do you even have to ask." As silence permeates the room, tears begin to pool under her lashes. "When are you going to start thinking about our family and not just yourself?"

"I do think about our family! Dad, Mum, Geo—"

Rolling her eyes, she shouts, "I mean _us_, Harry!" She quickly places her fingertips on her chest and then motions her hands back and forth between them. "We've been married for three years and—"

"You _know_ how I feel about having children. You know!"

She soars to her feet and rushes toward him. "The world isn't that bad a place, Harry." Clasping her palms together, she continues, "I've been asking the same questions for five years. What's wrong? What can I do to help? Why do you keep pushing me away! I don't know how much longer I can take this. _This_!" His wife clenching her fists causes her tan glovelettes to scrunch. She glances down at the drops of spilt tea and watches her tears join them on the worn floor. Pressing her lips together, she inhales through her nose until her chest can no longer expand and exhales in a lengthy sigh. Shaking her head, she says, "Never mind. It's a miracle you haven't been sacked—or killed—yet."

With sharp movements, the Holyhead Harpies' Seeker unstraps and retightens her gloves, making sure her gear is ready for short-flight to work. Clearing her throat, she say in a calmer voice, "After practice, I'm attending Valmai's baby shower and then visiting Hermione and, and," her voice wavering, finishes, "a few of my teammates for dinner."

Harry's eyes soften and he grasps her hand. "Ginny I—"

"No!" She yanks from his hold. "I don't want to hear another apology. I'll be out late. You needn't wait up." She picks up her broom, a Prism Pro 3000, leaning against the wall; its bristles still crisp and handle still glossy. "Oh, and Malfoy's letter arrived. I placed it next to the sink." Head high she leaves the kitchen without glancing back.

Shoulders slumped, Harry walks toward the large enameled butler's sink. He places his drink on the marble countertop and lifts an envelope made out of thick soft parchment. A large ebony wax seal stamped with a sinuous "M" fastens it shut.

Soon after the war ended, Draco commenced owling the same, exact, letter. No matter what spell Harry casted to prohibit delivery, the owl would find its way. At first, it was once a week; now, it's daily.

Moments tick by as absinthe-shaded orbs focus on the untouched tepid beverage before him. Fingernails shorn short pick at the edge of the supple paper until it begins to tear. _It's only a dram. What could it hurt?_ He bites his lip leaving a deep indentation, lifts the drink, and swallows it down in a few large gulps. Tossing the unread correspondence in the air, Harry murmurs, "_Incendio_," and feels a burst of heat on his face. With a wry grin and lowered lids, he watches as ash floats down into the eggshell white basin below.

After exiting his modest residence secluded in a small corner of Godric's Hollow, Harry turns around and gazes at the front door. The entrance holds a moving stained-glass window; a red "P" floating in its center. Around the crimson letter, a phoenix and lion dance. The radiant bird would tug on the lion's tail, and the large feline would bat at the phoenix. Most people, when they first visit, assume the character stands for Potter; when in actuality, it stands for Prewett, Mrs. Weasley's family.

During the First Wizarding War, Mrs. Weasley's only two brothers died defending their Manor while it burnt to the ground. The single thing to survive on the estate was the chamberlain's cottage. It remained abandoned and in disrepair until Mrs. Weasley asked if Harry would like to fix it up as a wedding gift for Ginny.

Heaving a sigh, Harry locks the door with a goblin-crafted iron key. Once the bolt clicks, the exterior of the home flashes varying colors as multiple wards activate. The first toll of bells at the Parish Church of St. Clementine sounds. Without losing another second, a ribbon of smog twists above the doorstep and Harry pops to work.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Seven pounds and twenty-three pence. Harry plunks the money back into his tin can and sighs. After sitting cross-legged on hard pavement for three hours, he rocks on his rump trying to increase the blood flow to his legs. A warming charm helps battle the brisk autumn day, but nothing can relieve his foul mood—except maybe nabbing the evil git he's been hunting for the past year.

Harry notices the morning rush beginning to shift into the afternoon lunch crowd. As packs of muggle tourists meander by hip new restaurants and theaters, flashes of cameras burst throughout the bustling street of the revitalized Soho District.

Stranger after stranger pass Harry without a second glance; No one pays heed to the tramp huddled on the steps of an unopened storefront clad in soiled pants, baggy shirt, and torn trench coat.

Muggle London politicians tout the new up-and-coming, family-friendly neighborhood; it no longer being the debauched red-light draw it once was, but Harry knew better. Once a monster sets up its lair, it's difficult to eradicate. Like a hydra, you cut off one head and another grows in its place; the subsequent one, having learned from its predecessor's mistake, emerging even stronger. The beast might retreat for a while giving you a sense of security, but once the safe light of day begins to dim, it comes out to play and lure its next victim. To truly vanquish a monster, you need to destroy its heart.

Across the one lane street, the door to a tattoo parlor whispers open, and an attached "Closed" sign ticks back and forth. Harry stills and slits his eyes. A man wearing khaki slacks, a navy polo shirt, and a gunmetal gray windbreaker saunters onto the pavement. When he walks away, Harry notices a red blotch on the man's neck and stiffens.

Once the man rounds the corner, the auror leaps to his feet and places a hand in his pocket wrapping fingers around his wand handle. He crosses the road and commences jogging after his target, keeping a discreet distance.

The man turns into a shaded alley. As he strolls deeper between the two man-made mountains, the scurrying escape of rats nudging bits of refuse can be heard. Harry keeps low and flush against one brick wall of the lonely back street. Drawing his wand, he creeps towards his quarry and hides behind a large olive dumpster.

Harry watches as the man places a hand inside his jacket, pulls out a gun, and places the tip of the barrel onto his own temple.

A shimmering light cascades over the man. His banal muggle clothes morph into affluent carmine robes. His hair changes from a dull brown to a rich honey blond, and his unmemorable face transforms into sharp planes. Lastly, the gun in his hand reshapes into a long mahogany wand.

Before the revealed wizard can flick, Harry moves from his hiding place and casts an anti-disapparition jinx. The cruel faced man stumbles back but twists with the momentum, falling onto his hands and knees. Harry throws a disarming charm; the man rolls before it can hit.

The auror dives behind the large trash bin. A bright emerald beam blazes past where he once stood and out into the open street. The shrill scream of a woman and worried murmurs echo through the narrow passage.

A piercing screech and clatter of metal tug Harry away from the mounting sounds of concern. Harry pokes out his head, and the man, now from an above old fire escape, discharges another curse in his direction.

The dumpster in front of him explodes. Putrid garbage flies into air, and Harry slams against brick and mortar. Sprawled in a heap, Harry groans and rubs his head with a hand while he clambers onto his feet. Swaying in the direction of the stairs, Harry notices the pull-down ladder gone and finds a bubbling molten puddle on the asphalt.

The pounding of the perpetrator's shoes cease to beat. Without pause, Harry jogs back a couple paces and then hurdles forward. The sheer will of his magic propelling him the extra inch required for his hands to latch on to the iron scaffolding.

After lifting himself up, Harry notes a fine red dust covering his palms, pats his hands on his thighs, and scrambles up the steps.

Lungs tight and burning, a clear view of cloudless sky opens before him. He grimaces when a stinging bead of sweat slips into one eye. As Harry lifts his head above an eroded partition, he shouts, "_Protego_!"

Coiling black tentacles hit his protective barrier. Cracks start to form and glow until the shield crumbles into a rain of sparks. The man continues to flee, soaring from one roof to the next, looking like a drop of blood sliding along a concrete wall.

Harry maintains pace with him casting cushioning and acceleration charms as needed. Funnels of greasy vapor float from corroded steel pipes and fill Harry's nostrils with every inhale.

The man nearing the cliff of buildings slows and glances at Harry from over his shoulder; a mischievous smile cuts underneath high cheek bones. Polished wood glimmers near the crook of his adversary's neckline, and a raspy voice bellows, "_Confringo_!"

An eruption of orange magma from the man's wand roars towards Harry before the dark wizard leaps off the roof. Harry gasps, braces his lower limbs and screams, "_Aguamenti_!" An icy blue torrent barrels out from Harry's wand. His ears pop from the colliding spells; the impact causing the sandy floor to melt. As scalding steam sizzles, Harry grits his teeth from the searing pain while radiant heat eats into the flesh of his hands and face. Not letting his burnt skin distract him, the auror darts around a large patch of newly made scorched glass and carries on his pursuit.

Sirens from emergency vehicles howl at each other in the distance. Harry makes his way to the ledge and looks down. A group of muggles surround a crater, the breadth of the walkway, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders. One woman points to a sign affixed to a wrought iron lamppost that reads "RUPERT STREET" and then gestures down the road. Turning towards the indicated direction, Harry sees another sign wavering in distant car exhaust. A narrow-eyed grin appears on his blistered face.

The determined wizard's breaths come fast as he winds his wand about his body as if he were wrapping himself in ropes. After the end of his wand stops its star-like shine, his body wavers, and his shadow disappears.

Next, his reddened hand yanks a crystalline vial from an inner pocket; gold liquid refracts within the caterpillar-sized bottle. He twists off the copper cap and swallows the potion that tastes of sour apples and ocean water. Screwing his mouth in distaste, Harry begins to feel prickles crawl from his apex and down under his clothing. His veins become more pronounced and turn an intense metallic green. Soon one big silver sage-colored bruise overwhelms his form. As soon as the discoloration begins to dissipate and healed tissue emerges, the auror disapparates away with a muffled puff.

A second later, Harry appears next to a large descending tunnel. Above it, a plaque announces it as the Piccadilly Circus Underground Station.

Cries of startlement and shouts of ire draw his attention. A tall hooded figure in vermilion garments speeds in his direction. Shadowed cold eyes look past Harry, and the rude man continues to shove people, including Harry, out of his way. With one last glance behind him, the dark wizard rushes down the stairwell. Harry matches the rhythm of the man's steps and follows him down a long hallway of gleaming white tile until the man escapes behind the unmarked door of a caretaker's closet.

Harry places his ear on the blank paper-white door and after hearing nothing, without making it rattle, tries the stainless-steel knob. Not budging, Harry whispers, "_Alohomora_." His fingers curled around the shiny handle turn without resistance. Protecting most of his body behind with the wall, Harry flings open the door—and finds it's empty.

He shifts long dark strands of hair sticking to the sides of his sweaty face and frowns. The small dingy vault about a full arm span in both depth and width sits undisturbed, unthreatening, and unremarkable.

Harry thinks the word _Lumos_ and a soft radiance reveals the nooks and crannies of the closet. He investigates the interior from top to bottom and uncovers nothing.

"Damn it!" A splash and clang reverberate after he kicks over a soapy-water-filled bucket. Calming his breathing, he walks out the door.

Harry turns around. His deep green eyes stare at the dark rectangular opening.

He shrugs his shoulders, holds his breath, and sprints without hesitation into the closet.

The auror trips from a stone wall into a gloomy and sinister back way. A row of menacing structures seem to lean over Harry like intimidating sentinels. Creeping closer to a plain wooden door, he spots a scrawled symbol, a wingless dragon, with curved thorns growing from its spine, writhing in the shape of an "S". The wizard realizes he's standing by the rear exit to The Spiny Serpent in Knockturn Alley.

Harry shuts his eyes, and as he breathes out, his shoulders sag. By now, there's no telling where the nit could be. Nails biting into his palms, he begins to turn away until something catches his eye. On the cast-iron doorknob lies a fresh smear of rust.

He studies his palms; the meat of his hands, covered in a layer of burgundy residue, look like he crawled on the surface of Mars—or up an oxidized fire escape. Before his fingers can surround the smooth orb, the throb of strong wards give warning.

Harry takes a few steps backwards in thought staring at the fortification of businesses. His eyes squint and he slowly turns and begins to jog toward the main thoroughfare of Knockturn Alley.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Three strong knocks strike the door to Moribund's, a rare—and often illegal—creature shop.

The round door, a solid piece of black-stained sequoia, resembles the whirlpool monster Charybdis in his dark sea home about to swallow an unsuspecting victim. Heavy boots thud and a copious number of locks unfasten with a barrage of clicks.

As the entry cracks open, Harry's throat tightens and his eyes water from the smell of feed and animal waste. A black iris floating in too much white peers at him.

"Wha' cha be wantin'?" husks a low voice.

"Mr. Moribund would it be possible to use your facilities?"

"My wha'?"

Hopping from foot to foot, Harry implores, "I need to use the loo." He then leans forward and whispers, "By any chance have you seen my _lost_ pet?" Harry lifts a flattened hand a few inches above his head. "About so high. A shaggy mutt with green fur."

Moribund opens the bulky wooden saucer a smidgen wider. "Green ya say."

Like a Shar Pei, the shopkeeper's mouth scrunches exaggerating his many wrinkles. He gnaws his lower lip and scrutinizes Harry a few more moments before he drawls, "Ya need ta be usin' da _facilities_."

Harry bobs his head, fingers fidgeting, and glances behind his back.

Moribund fully opens the mammoth entryway and gestures for him to enter. "I m'ave foun' sucha beast."

The stocky man wears stained pants, a wrinkled linen shirt, and a loose leather robe that resembled a duster. Harry notices the similarities of their garb and stifles a grin. The key differences in their wardrobe are Moribund has an enchanted whip clipped to his belt and sports an akubra, a felt hat with a wide brim.

Harry surveys the shop and sees a floor-to-ceiling wall of various sized and constructed cages; the gravity defying structure sways like a cobra from the imprisoned creatures' movements. Chatters, roars, and hisses along with snapping and tearing bleed from the giant space.

Crossing the threshold, the sensation of thawing ice pours over Harry's body. Wards begin to melt his disguise revealing his tan woolen auror robes and normal facial features.

The shop owner's face pales. He backs away and stutters, "Auror Potter, sir. I was jestin'; I 'ave na' seen da dog ya 'ave described."

Harry steps to the side to view what inhabits the small iron pen behind Moribund's body, and indeed, it is a highly coveted—and highly endangered—Cù-Sìth under the effects of a shrinking charm.

Sweat starts to bead above the merchant's scarred lip. Harry, not being able to repress a laugh, asks, "Mr. Moribund, your lavatory?"

Looking at Harry like he was mad, he says, "It' upstairs. Four' door on da left."

"Ah, yes. Perfect." Smiling and thanking the squirming man, Harry proceeds to the second floor.

Mounted heads adorn every inch of the wall above the stairwell. Towards the bottom, above scratched ebony wainscoting, the heads of creatures such as pixies and grindylows hang like holiday ornaments. Near the lofty ceiling, the gaping mug of an Antipodean Opaleye dragon tops the macabre display. As Harry ascends, the glassy eyed stare of the myriad creatures follows his climb.

A tall door squeaks and exposes a shallow but wide bathroom. Chipped black marble tile and peeling maroon wallpaper give it a claustrophobic air. Harry strides toward a copper sink in the shape of a dragon egg. He turns on the brass faucet and a wavering stream runs over his left hand. Satisfied, Harry moves to the far right corner of the room and places a damp thumbprint on the paisley patterned paper. He takes a few more paces and stamps his index finger, repeating the process until all five digits have left their moist impressions at regular intervals.

Harry swings his wand out in front of him from left to right and murmurs, "_Aquacidum_."

Dark red drips run down the side of the wall like ichor. They grow to trickles and then steady streams as the water spots transform into acid and burrow straight through the wall.

After the curse completes, little holes pierce the barrier and gape like blank eyes—all but one. From the slit to the far left, the faint glow of flickering firelight can be seen.

Harry progresses closer to the glistering wound in the wall. A thump and subsequent whimper fills his ears.

"How could I have been discovered!" screams a muffled hoarse voice. Another round of pounding hits.

A shaft of light aligns with Harry's poisonous green eye, and he absorbs the scene before him.

An elongated arm smothered in a florid velvet sleeve shakes a small limp body. A little boy.

Harry's teeth grind and his heart speeds. With controlled focus, he says, "Expulso." A blue blast flashes and swathes Harry in a layer of radiance like burning arsenic. Brick and plaster detonate.

The dark wizard recoils away from the tumult, and a few pebbles pelt his bent back. His fist jars, and the child crumbles to the ground.

Releasing his clenched jawbone, gums aching from the pressure, Harry slashes his wand in a hard motion and bellows, "_Sectumsempra_!"

Harry's target shrieks and drops to his knees. The man's crimson robes begin to darken from his left shoulder to his right hip. Wet muscle and sinew leer.

A steel-toed boot socks into the injured man's stomach causing him to fall onto his back. Wreckage bites into his lesion and he gasps.

"Where are the rest of them!" Harry kicks the man again in the ribs. "Where are they!"

Bitter eyes bore through Harry with disdain. "The famous do-gooder, Harry Potter. No need for your sullied blood to boil." Two rows of perfect teeth materialize between the man's sneering lips. Glancing at the small unmoving pale mound, the bleeding man says, "If you wanted a taste of the boy, all you need do was ask."

Harry's pupils shrink to minute obsidian shards. Face relaxed, he smiles and says, "_Crucio_."

The man's body contorts billowing red fabric; his arm, a knee, his chest creating mountains that would collapse and then reform. Like the creation of the Earth's surface, how long the man writhed was interminable until Harry stops and again asks, "Where. Are. They."

The man curls up onto his side and blubbers.

Harry catches movement in his peripheral vision. A diminutive form sways to his bare feet. Dark blue almost black eyes, which have learned the hard lesson that faith and hope are for fools who believe people never lie and aren't vulnerable to fear, gaze at Harry. The auror recognizes the boy's vacant stare and has observed it numerous times throughout his life. The same look can be found on all lost souls, including his.

The boy's treble voice states, "He cannot say, Master," and touches a mark over his chest and then peeks at his tormentor's nape.

His entire body was veiled in magically infused tattoos which obstruct most of his features. Over his heart sits a crimson circle, a clone to the spot on back of the gibbering man's neck. An azure blue boarder surrounds the red sun and from it, henna-like flowing lines and abstract flowers twist around the child's arms, legs, all the way to his fingers and toes; even his scalp under wilted black hair wasn't left untouched. The designs pulse and glitter with power making him resemble a solitary deep sea fish.

No scars mar the boy's skin. No bruises blemish his body. To suffer countless sessions of torment but have no physical proof you endured it was unconscionable.

Harry squats down keeping his wand at the ready and aimed at the moaning wizard.

Now closer to the child's height, he gently inquires, "What's your name?"

Face remote, the boy replies, "I am unworthy of a name, Master."

Staunching his crested tears, Harry clears his throat and asks, "If I required your presence, what word would I speak?"

"The word you would speak, Master," he bows, "would be Scrap."

"Scrap, do you remember where you're home was before you were taken?"

The little boy frowns and his expression unfocuses a moment. "No home." He slowly shakes his head then pauses a second before he says, "An orphanage, Master."

"Where was this orphanage?"

"It was…" Scrap's teeth clench and his skinny arms shake by his sides.

Harry senses his objective beginning to slip from his grasp and feels the prickle of desperation slither down his spine. "You can't say."

The boy's head gives a small nod. Lifting his hand, Scrap pinches and rubs Harry's wool robes between his fingers. With an intense expression, he tries to communicate so much that must be left unsaid. The boy's fist spasms around the fawn-dyed material, tugs once hard, and then releases in defeat.

"I want to help them and you. Can you _show_ me where they are?"

Droplets of perspiration form paths through the thin film of chalky dust which covers the boy. Scrap gasps and clutches his hand over the sphere on his chest. Harry guesses the tattoo must be a type of the Imperius. Usually, the curse is performed painlessly and once given, generates a feeling of peace. Only a monstrous sadist would apply it on a child as a painful tattoo.

Scrap sinks to the filthy hardwood floor and kneels in supplication. "I apologize, Master. What can I say that would please you?"

A crease divides Harry's two troubled eyes. He places a hand on the boy's chilled shoulder and encourages him to lift his head. Scrap flinches at the touch. Twilight dark pools reflect Harry's concerned visage…and a movement from behind.

The auror shoves the child to the side and rolls towards the invader. Harry kicks up his legs and handsprings to his feet.

A smooth accented tenor says, "_Petrificus Totalus_."

Harry immediately drops and bounds into frontward roll.

The curse flies over Harry's tumbling body and hits his prior assailant who was attempting to rise from a lake of blood. The dueling wizards barely notice as the blond man falls over stiff like a stout cherry tree. A splat sounds, and a wraith of dust undulates from his prone body.

Instead of flinging another ranged spell, the new wizard tackles the auror to the ground. Harry's holly wand cartwheels and clatters to the floor. His lungs expel a rush of air from the force of impact. His head smacks the stone hearth, and embers explode in his skull like fireworks, mimicking the wood popping in the hot alcove.

Harry struggles beneath the weight of his enemy. He tries to make out his attacker's features but a spell camouflages them as a blur. The dark wizard's hands are encased in scarlet Liondragon gloves. His right hand holds a long yew wand and his left hand slams towards Harry's chest.

Once the dark wizard forces contact over the auror's heart, Harry's aggressor gasps and throws his head back. His eyes briefly flutter shut.

Agony. Unfathomable agony.

Pain consumes Harry's whole body. The Cruciatus Curse stimulates pain receptors, but this, this is a hundredfold worse. This is his very essence, his magic, being eaten away.

The amount of anguish stuns Harry. He forces his mind to accept the pain and starts emerging from the layers of torment that drown his will.

And then the man places his silken mouth on Harry's.

Like a conduit connecting, pulses of pure ecstasy slide from Harry's lips, down his neck, over his nipples and fills his cock. Harry pushes deeper into the kiss, never wanting the bliss to end. So much temptation to surrender. To let the rapture take him away from the pain of _living_. To take him away forever.

The wizard rubs against Harry's rigid member and both their chests vibrate in pleasure. Harry opens his mouth further and the sound of their teeth knocking penetrates his ears…and something else. Sobbing.

The boy.

Harry could not fail the boy.

The auror forces his head to the side and breaks the passionate link. A streak of cooling spittle from the dark wizard's mouth grazes his right check. Harry cries out as he feels his soul starts to fracture.

Jaw tight, Harry's quaking arm reaches for the dark wizard's idle right hand and then yanks back and down as hard as it can. A sharp snap echoes by the auror's left ear.

"No!" the dark wizard wails.

One half of the yew stick smolders, then ignites. Harry strains and his fingers nudge the tip of the other sliver. The wizard removes his hand from Harry's breast bone and attempts to regain control.

The auror's body rakes with tremors from shock but succeeds in claiming the wand shard; he plunges the jagged stake into the dark wizard's carotid artery.

Harry plucks and discards the wood remnant behind his head to share its twin's fate. He lifts his arms around the man's shoulder blades and forces his adversary into an embrace. Life blood that should be supplying the wizard's brain gushes from his neck and seeps into both their robes.

The hemorrhaging man grabs Harry's head and beats it against hewn granite until the auror's sight begins to blacken, enabling him to escape.

With each pump of the wizard's heart, more gore wicks down into every fiber of his garments. The man picks up Scrap and places the child's hand over his injury then staggers away.

Harry crawls over the tacky ground towards the pile of rubble where his wand lies. After reclaiming his magical sidekick, he continues as fast as he can on his hands and knees following the trail of smeared crimson blots. Knees bruised, the splatters lead him to a wide wall. A static painting of Herpo the Foul and his coiled viridescent basilik spans its entirety and blocks his path.

The auror uses the canvas to raise himself to his feet and groans as the room appears to stretch and contract.

Harry shakes his head to clear his vision and says, "_Finite_."

Paint dissolves into a multicolored viscous sludge. The oily substance churns toward the black center of a vortex. A loud crack reverberates, and the conjuration vanishes exposing a great room.

At the far end of a dim long meeting hall, stand three massive marble fireplaces reflecting light like black glass. The outmost hearths taunt with orange and blue tongues of fire.

Climbing over tipped tables and benches strewn over the floor, Harry races towards the escaping man.

The outer edges of the dark wizard's body mirrors the two blazes until the unused middle stone recess swallows his frame.

Reaching out towards Scarp with his empty hand, Harry yells, "Stop!"

A handful of silvery powder cascades. The abductor murmurs.

The auror, now within range, flings a hex at the wizard's feet not wanting to hit the boy held tightly to the man's chest.

A bleak green pyrocumulus cloud whooshes—and they're gone.

With a fizzle, Harry's spell disintegrates.

High-voiced bickering captures the auror's attention. He twists his body in the direction of the racket, another spell on the edge of his tongue.

Blending into the shadows, a cluster of about a dozen children halts his attack. From the snippets of clothing some of them have managed to keep, the auror deduces this is the latest group of kidnapped muggle children.

Harry falls to his knees in bittersweet relief.

For the past eleven, almost twelve months, Harry has been following leads to the kingpin of a trafficking ring. The criminal organization specializes in stealing young muggles and selling them to the magical elite. A few children had been no older than five. The auror couldn't understand why anyone would desire to spend so much money on such depravity; he could only be incensed by it.

Harry stands, and as he walks closer, waves his wand above his head. The illumination from wall sconces banishes the darkness. Tiny gasps sound and their little bodies huddle closer to each other—all except for two.

A slight boy and girl, both with mops of auburn hair, stand and glare defiantly at one other. Their voices again increase in volume and Harry intercedes, "Why are you yelling at each other?"

Grey eyes like hot springs on a snow-covered mountain drift to Harry. "I think you're a policeman," the little girl asserts.

Blazing blue eyes that still hold hope also turn toward the auror. The younger boy shouts, "A policeman don't dress like that! You're an angel aren't cha?"

Harry shakes his head with a melancholy smile. He was the farthest thing from an angel. Self-destructive. Selfish. Imperfect.

The little girl runs to him. She hugs his legs and pillows her face into his sodden robes. Gazing up, she tilts her head in dismay and affirms, "But you're special." Her eyes open wide, "You're a superhero!"

A small closed-mouth grin reaches Harry's eyes.

"We promise we won't tell nobody your secret," the sprite-like girl continues furtively. All the children nod their heads in emphatic agreement.

After assuring the children that help was on its way, Harry pulls a lavender piece of parchment from his robes. He then places his wand to his temple and delicately draws it away. Silver strands emerge from his head and cling to the wood tip. The wisps float onto the blank document and like ethereal tentacles grab-and-fold until a simple airplane rises from the auror's palm.

The paper plane flies around the room whizzing over the children's heads in playful loops until Harry tosses floo powder into the center hearth. A burst of lime sparks halos Harry's body.

The brunette boy whispers, "See. What'd I tell you? An angel."

Harry produces another violet sheet. He tears off a small section and transfigures it into a soft blanket and continues until every child is enveloped in warmth.

The fireplace flares and four aurors and two mediwizards arrive. After Harry explains the situation, one mediwitch hands Harry a potion to cure his concussion. She also prescribes that he visit a healer at St. Mungo's for further evaluation without delay.

The auror smiles in assurance and makes his way back to the room where the stabilized wizard still lies motionless on the floor.

Harry crouches and hovers his head directly over the helpless man's line-of-sight. The wizard's eyeballs wobble in terror.

Harry coldly simpers, "Don't worry. No smooches for you."

The auror leans closer to the dark wizard's ear and hisses, "You are very, _very_ lucky backup arrived so quickly. A monster like you doesn't deserve such a reprieve." A side-effect of the full body-bind curse is that it regulates the circulatory system, lessening blood loss. Pity.

Huffing he continues, "Unfortunately, your sorry excuse of a life must continue _safely_ behind the bureaucracy of the Ministry."

Harry bends and places his lips on the man's cheek. "Guess, I lied."

Leaving the terrified wizard behind, Harry sore and exhausted descends the stairs and out the back exit of the dark arts fraternity building. He chastises himself for only managing to cut off one head from the beast and not destroy its heart. The real monster escaped, and all of his next victims would be on Harry's shoulders, including Scrap.

Another failure to add to his long list.

He rubs his face with both hands and flings them to his sides with a snarl. God! He needs a, a—_strong drink_.

Harry alters his outer shell hiding his blood-soaked robes and returns to muggle London through the hidden passageway.

A nice pub waits for him just around the block.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"Potter!"

Behind Harry, the staccato clap of leather-soled Oxfords quickens. "Potter, damn it! Stop. I know it's you!"

Harry grimaces. He's managed to avoid the pompous git for five years, and of all days, _today_ is the day the blighter catches him.

Movements unsteady, Harry regrets indulging in one more round before returning to the Ministry. At least, he still has enough sense to remember possible repercussions, should he try to restore his previous conjured mask. Bugger it all! The auror curses the fickleness of facial transformations. Why did they have to dissolve so much faster than inanimate ones?

Attempting to elude his pursuer, Harry heads down a random utilitarian hallway. Before his next turn, darting with confidence, he thinks ah, yes, this should lead him straight to...a dead end.

"Fuck," grouses Harry under his breath.

The footfalls following Harry stop. "Nowhere to run, Potter."

Harry sighs. Hair flaring above his shoulders as he pivots around on one foot, he asks, "What'd you want, Malfoy?"

Draco Malfoy's steel eyes pinch. "Are you telling me, you haven't opened, even one letter?"

Harry's face, like a statue, remains impassive and unmoving, almost haughty.

The former Death Eater studies Harry's appearance. Instead of typical auror robes, Harry wears a tailored silk sable muggle business suit. His _Avada Kedavra_-imbibed eyes are heavy lidded and dilated. His stubbled cheeks are flushed and lips bruised, like the ever faithful hero had an earlier snogging session with the she-weasel. Harry's mien appears relaxed, handsome, and quite like a rakish rogue. Bloody Gryffindor.

Stepping into Harry's personal space, Draco says, "Trying to act the part of a noble pureblood with the long locks," then finishes spitting, "Potter."

"I like that it gives th' finger to those who still believe in that outdated custom," Harry raises his brows and stares pointedly at Malfoy, "and t' be honest, I've more important things t' worry 'bout than my hair," giving his old school nemesis' coiffed mane a sneer. The pesky Slytherin resembles his father so much; it's uncanny.

Malfoy's cultured voice replies, "It's my responsibly, as heir, to undertake important duties as my station requires. I must look the part to ensure respect from my peers and personnel." Sighing in exasperation, "We are no longer children. Can we not have an adult conversation?"

Hearing the word children, an image of Scrap's distraught face flashes before Harry, and he stumbles forward.

Arms wrap around the auror, steadying him. "Potter, are you ill?" Malfoy detects the pungent whiff of alcohol and in disbelief, asks, "Are you smashed?"

"I might've partaken a drink 'r two." Or ten.

While Malfoy's hands slide from around Harry's waist to the front of his shoulders, helping him to right himself, Harry ponders the berk's cologne. A rich woodsy scent. Most likely agarwood, a rare aromatic resin…and something else, slightly sweet. Humming in thought—ambergris. Both items are incredibly expensive but unexpectedly non-magical. Any muggle with a large enough bank account would be able to acquire them. Surprising. The auror assumed the spoiled brat would never stoop to place such mundane ingredients on his body.

Harry's eyes slowly roam up Malfoy's immaculate Egyptian blue robes to his face. Gone are the dark under-eye circles and the gaunt cheeks that he carried during the war. His eyes once again sparkle with the faintest hint of shadow, and his cheekbones balance his patrician features.

The Gryffindor has always been aware of his childhood enemy's cold refined beauty. Harry licks his lips and clenches his fists. Since the start of quidditch season, Ginny has been "too tired" or "not in the mood." Harry thinks it's probably her passive-aggressive way of punishing him. The previous incident today with the dark wizard exacerbated rather than soothed his ongoing sexual frustration.

A small oval tin, labeled Prionsa's Breath Remedies, materializes on Malfoy's palm. Harry watches as the pureblood pops off the lid and picks up a tiny red-flecked white brick with his thumb and index finger.

"Here."

Malfoy opens his mouth, lifts his eyebrows, and waits for Harry to copy his action. Harry complies and manicured fingers place the tablet between the auror's lips. Unable to repress a moan, Harry closes his eyes.

The flavors of vanilla and peppermint coat every curve in his mouth. His lips linger around the Slytherin's fingertips, and his tongue lightly caresses them leaving them slick.

Malfoy, transfixed on Harry's actions, freezes and gets caught in the auror's heated gaze. Clearing his throat, the blond breaks eye contact and takes a swift step back; a wash of warmth flowing down his body. He coughs and thrusts the tin into Harry's hands choking, "On the house." After finding his composure, Malfoy explains, "It's the newest formula; I've developed. It'll lower your blood alcohol level. Relieves hangover symptoms as well."

The Slytherin shoves his hand in a pocket. Harry, sobering up, twitches for his holstered wand.

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy snaps, "Really," and pulls out a parcel, wrapped in vellum, roughly the size of a deck of cards. "Here, take it."

"What is it?" asks Harry, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head.

"After the Battle of Hogwarts, I was named executor of Severus' will—"

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes, he wished for you to have this." Jerking the package in Harry's direction, "This is the last thing that ties me to memories of the war." His throat convulses. "I want to fully move on but can't until this final task is done. I swear; I won't ever ask another favor of you." Malfoy's lids shut. In an even tone, he implores, "Please."

Both men pause, one glimpsing a landscape of darkness and the other smooth supple hands; both uncertain of what will happen next. Their synchronized breathing the only sound that disturbs the peaceful calm.

Harry clasps his hands over Malfoy's and the box. Storm grey eyes shoot open and watch as Harry removes it from his grasp.

After a long exhale, a slight smile of relief forms above Malfoy's strong angular chin. His attention remains on Harry's face an additional instant before he begins to turn away.

Harry's voice whispers, "You're a better man than I. Truly." Malfoy halts midstep.

Dropping formality, Draco says, "Harry, you _do_ need help. You are not seeing the world as it really _is_."

The auror releases the last threads holding his glamour in place. "This is what I am—" stiff crunchy robes covered in dark dried blood shimmer into existence, "a murderer. You still have your conscience. You meet or exceed your family obligations."

Malfoy shakes his head in sadness and can't stop his emotions from dipping into pity. "Get help, Potter."

Once Harry feels his past rival's absence, the sparsely lit hall seems to dim even further.

Sighing, the auror glowers and looks around trying to get his bearings. He can't recall ever visiting this sector of the Ministry.

After taking a few steps down the corridor, searching for some clue as to where he is, a blinding beam of light rounds the corner. Harry quickly crouches, flattens himself beside a wall, and aims his wand towards the hall opening.

A gruff voice says, "At ease, Auror, Potter."

"Head Auror Robards?"

A grunt of acknowledgment precedes the ray fading to a glowing pin prick before vanishing. Flashing spots of echoed luminescence swim before Harry's vision.

"Auror Potter, what are you doing in the Vampire Division of the Non-Wizards Part-Humans Services Office?"

"Uh…" Harry couldn't recollect his reasoning, if there was any, as to why he was here either.

"No matter. Follow me."

Instead of asking where they would be going and seeming insubordinate, Harry requests, "Sir, would it be possible for me to clean up first?"

Squinting his eyes at Harry's appearance, Robards snorts. "Clean up ya say. Yes, you will, but we'll make a quick stop at my office." Leaving no room for refusal, he orders, "Come along."

Harry trails his superior through various halls, doors, and offices until at last, the glorious shining entrance of the lift opens in welcome. A polite disembodied female voice announces the floor as Level Four: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

Since the last Ministry Restructuration, the many, _many_, sub-departments ceased being announced. That one decision alone probably produced the largest increase in efficiency to date.

Robards and Harry wait for passengers to disembark before walking into the cramped wood-paneled container.

The lift attendant, a scrawny teen with an overbite and an oversized bellboy cap, demands, "Level?"

"Two." Both aurors say simultaneously.

"Level Two," confirms the attendant. He cranks the lever twice; each grinding switch ending with a harsh ding."

With a jolt, Harry's body, including the back of his skull, slams against the wall. The Head Auror, gripping a hanging handhold above his head, raises an eyebrow at Harry's unpreparedness.

The lift switches directions, and Harry's stomach somersaults. If he cared about propriety, he would send a Thank You note to Malfoy and commend him on the effectiveness of his tablets. After consuming such a great quantity of liquor, Harry marvels that he's not spewing all over the compartment.

The two aurors travel in awkward silence until they arrive before Robards' office door.

21

The two-digit number, engraved on a brass plaque, indicates that they are indeed at the right location.

In the Ministry, name plates were rarely used. The rationale being, if a person needs to visit a certain room, either he or she would already know where it was, was invited and given directions, or would be capable of performing a spell that would guide the way. Not to mention, regardless of promotion, demotion—or death—the signs would never have to be changed.

Robards orbits an oak desk that resembles its owner. Stout, unbudging, and a little worse for wear. Flopping into a hard-backed chair, he motions for Harry to take the seat opposite him.

The Head Auror clears his throat and steeples his chunky fingers. He fixes his gaze on Harry and takes a drawn-out breath.

Harry starts to feel the trickle of adrenaline flow through his veins. The last time this scenario took place…words were said.

Regarding his supervisor amid two large towering piles of folders, Harry watches as he briskly opens a lone file. Robards picks up a small stack of pictures and tosses them in Harry's direction.

The photos slip to a skewed stop. Harry slants his head, and the blurry image of the wizard he chased earlier, jumping from the roof top, punches his gut and turns it sour.

"Auror Potter, you know our main objective is to vigilantly limit exposure. You had ample opportunity to disarm him. You understood the protocol. Locate the suspect. Contact headquarters. Not run off by yourself. Because of you an innocent muggle woman is dead!

"If the correct responders had been present, the leader might have been apprehended."

Harry's nostrils flare. "If I hadn't followed, all those children would be lost, and you would have nothing!"

Ignoring Harry's outburst, he continued, "You've always been reckless. And that's why we _agreed_, when Ron chose to leave, not to assign you a replacement partner. We knew there was no one else, who had a chance in hell, of successfully reining in your behavior."

The Head Auror shakes his head. "But after reviewing your latest Memory Report…

"It's assumed that an occasional dark spell will be used in the line of duty, but even you have to admit that your use of dark magic during this last mission was excessive. You performed a Blasting _Curse _when you could have easily utilized Bombarda.

"Harry. We've…I've been concerned about your destructiveness for some time. And today discovering you have been drinking while on the job—"

"My assignment was over—"

"Do not interrupt me auror! It has been decided that you _will_ receive proper treatment. Potions Mistress Granger has been informed, and she'll see you posthaste. If you do not find a way to control your demons, I'm sorry to say you will be let go.

"You're fortunate you're not rotting to Azkaban," Robards growls. "Anyone else would be for using an Unforgivable in peacetime. But because of who you are and what you did, we're giving you the benefit of the doubt.

"It's time you got yourself _cleaned up_. You are officially off the case and on reduced magical credit leave. Dismissed, auror." Reduced magical credits. Ginny's gonna _love_ that.

Trying to hide his building anger, Harry bows his head and grits, "Yes, sir."

What does the stupid whale know? Nothing. Just has his fat tail stuck up his arse. They wouldn't have found an iota if he hadn't pursued the dark wizard. He has the highest rate for solved cases…and enemy casualties his minds whispers, which he ignores. Bloody politics. He follows his instincts and gets results. Maybe Ron was right. The bureaucracy of the place chokes the life out of you.

Harry stomps out of his supervisor's office, passes a hive of cubicles, and walks down a lengthy sloping hall. When he reaches an archway carved into cascading fountains, he comes to a stop. Perpendicular to the bubbling water, a magical portraiture of Hesphaestus Gore, one of the earliest Aurors who also became Minister, screws his left eye at Harry and rubs his protruding belly.

"Password," wheezes, the ancient wizard.

"Jumping jack."

The man nods his head in assent, and the painting swings wide with a creak, revealing a long low vaulted room.

The chamber, covered in dark wooden cubbies that wrap up and around the curved ceiling, smells musty and wet from the adjoining showers. Dividing the space in half, a bench topped with a gray Purbeck marble seat spans the length of the room.

Harry approaches the corner that houses his locker labeled with the number seven. Lucky number seven. Not so lucky right now.

The auror raise his arms and appraises his soiled gear. His robes are acid-proof, fire-proof, so many proofs he can't pronounce a couple of them, but not blood-proof. For some mystical reason, auror-issued garments eat blood like starving leeches. Can't use cleaning charms because they unbalance the protective properties of the material. A few rookies, who didn't read the section of garment care in their handbooks, have yet to be recovered.

Harry removes all the objects from his clothing and sets them on a shelf. Then he undresses, crushes the crackly fabric into a big ball, and throws it into his locker. Next, the auror checks his leg holster; the handle of his wand is still firmly an inch above his right ankle. Due to an enchantment, the holly rod will release only when needed.

He proceeds to put on a t-shirt which displays the Hogwart's coat of arms, mesh shorts, and trainers.

Jogging to double iron-doors, Harry smiles in anticipation of visiting one of the few places that provides him solace. The substantial metal panels open of their own accord, and the vast space of the gymnasium for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement begins to soothe his heavy heart.

Fondly called the Coliseum by its patrons, the oval room stands ten floors high. Lush plant and wild life live amongst the walls and balconies. A running track and daunting obstacle course among dense woods, similar to the Dark Forest, occupies the middle.

Laugher and cheers float down from above as a group celebrates the winner of a recent broom race. The conjured sky glows with sunset hues of orange, blue, and purple.

Harry runs in place to warm-up before he shoots down the pathway. He thinks about what Head Auror Robards implied. Bollocks. He's not a drunk. Nothing's wrong with drinking for a minor escape. Shaking his head, he focuses on the randomly shifting trail before him.

As he races along, the path is at first made of loose dirt, morphs into thick soft grass, and then without warning he's sprinting down a hill of hot sand. Spelled cool mist and a gentle breeze brushes his skin and soothes his overheated body.

After sweating out any remnants of alcohol that may still have been in him, Harry breathing hard, staggers near the locker room entrance. While he balances himself against the wall and stretches out his quadriceps, he peruses the announcement board which resembles a kaleidoscopic patchwork quilt. Drawing in a deep relaxed lungful, the auror wipes his forehead and reenters the changing room.

Harry takes a quick cold shower and redresses in jeans, a cobalt v-neck jumper, leather jacket, and tennis shoes. From his locker, he stores his new tablets and other personal items in his pockets until the last remaining item on the shelf is Snapes' bequeathment. He clutches both hands around the plainly bound box and sits on the solid stone bench. Trembling, Harry removes the outer layer of parchment and lifts the lid.

A small gold key rests on black velvet. Harry examines the contents of the box, but not a thing informs him of what he should do next.

The auror frowns in consternation then flips over the crumpled wrapper. Thin faded script marks its surface.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank  
>Safety Deposit Box 191960<p>

Harry pitches the empty box back in his locker, neatly folds the sheet of vellum, and puts both the key and cream paper square in his pants pocket.

The exiled auror departs from the tenebrous room and blinks as his eyes adjust to the hallway light emanating from a nearby torch. Standing immobile, Harry contemplates his next choice. He could go right and visit Hermione's office as demanded by Robards _or_ he could go left, take the lift down to the Atrium, and leave to visit Gringotts.

He _doesn't_ have a problem; Hermione can wait.

He turns left. The portrait behind Harry harumphs.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Black. Beady. Eyes.

The glares and gazes from dozens of goblins focus on Harry as his steps echo within the domed hall. Many of the pasty faces blaze with resentment while others glint with remembered satisfaction of being promoted due to Harry's contribution in eliminating the competition.

All the damage inflicted while fleeing on the back of a dragon after the trio's break-in has been repaired. All the bodies removed. All the surfaces scoured of blood.

The chamber once again looks as it did when, as a child, Harry first visited Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Before he knew that fate sentenced his soul to harbor the weight of so many lost lives. Before he ever even conceived of killing another human being.

Meager rays from the setting sun filter through the grime covered windows perched about the room. The cold marble motif, possessing the same greed as its caretakers, absorbs the light making the room somber.

Harry focuses on the head bank teller at the end of the aisle. The click of gold coins, being counted on either side of his progression, sound like impatient fingernails tapping.

Long pointed-nose in a ledger, the shrewd-eyed head goblin takes his time to meet Harry's green beryl frown.

"Name?" the monotoned apathetic goblin asks.

Craning his neck to see the creature lording over him from the tall podium, the auror answers, "Harry Potter."

A slight pause. "Business?"

"I have a key to a deposit box…"

Harry starts to reach into his pocket when the goblin again sinks back over his work, dips a quill in ink, and then clearly enunciates, "Counter Fourteen."

After turning around and finding a long queue of disgruntled wizards and witches waiting behind the specified counter, The Chosen One gapes at the pointy eared muppet. Huffing in indignation, Harry prepares himself for a lengthy wait and strides to the end of the line.

Slowly the wall of bodies in front of Harry dwindles until it's his turn to approach the dark-stained counter. He continues to ignore the obnoxious wizard behind him that has been complaining about _everything _in a now painfully irritating voice. If he has to listen to one more nasally complaint about the plight of blood status, Minister Shacklebolt's ineffectiveness, or disgusting creatures such as goblins, he just might need to purchase a one-way ticket to Azkaban because he's contemplating flashing the fool some green, and he's not thinking muggle currency.

Trying to get his mind off of the thought of homicide, Harry studies a gilded lamppost helmeted with a bulbous glass shade; its base engraved with a XIV.

Darkness now stalks Harry and the disconsolate queuers behind him through the many paned-windows. Worried, the auror checks the time with a wandless spell. Fifteen-til-seven. He still has time.

As Harry stretches, trying to loosen his stiff muscles, a frazzled young goblin rushes to meet him and in a high-pitched voice requests, "Sir, do you have your key?"

Harry evaluates the goblin's face. Garish pigmentation coats cheeks and lips and instead of typical drab business attire, the diminutive figure wears a sunflower-hued frock.

Either goblins are very accepting of cross-dressing or this is the first female goblin Harry has ever seen.

"Umm." Harry mumbles, continuing to gawk.

"Sorry for the wait." She says putting extra emphasis on the last consonant of her sentence. "But my supervisor thought it fit that I undertake _all_ duties including deposit and retrieval myself." She wipes her damp brow with her arm. "Your key Mr…"

"Mr. Potter."

The goblin's eyes grow, examining Harry's face. "Oh!" A big grin appears on her face. "Harry James Potter?"

Harry nods his head, and a wary but amused expression crosses his face. He uses his fingers like pincers to remove the key and folded piece of parchment from his pocket and hands them to…

"I'm sorry; what's your name?" Harry asks.

Her eyes widen then flutter. Placing her hand daintily over chest, she answers, "My name is—"

The wizard waiting behind Harry loudly clears his throat. Harry turns around and stares at the snooty man until the wizard's face pales, and he becomes fascinated with his own shiny shoes.

"I apologize for this man's rude behavior. Your name Ms…?"

"Kluga," she smiles crookedly. Resuming her professional demeanor, she straightens her posture and squares her shoulders. "Follow me."

Harry catches up with Kluga and keeps pace beside her. Regarding the top of her white wispy bouffant that towers over her head and ends a few inches below his hip, he inquiries, "I've never seen a goblin such as yourself before."

Hacking like a rascally cat, she looks at Harry from the corner of her eye and says, "That's probably because for many centuries, until a short time ago, a female of my species has not been allowed outside The Warren."

"What changed it?"

"You."

"Me," Harry exclaims in disbelief, "but I've rarely had dealings with goblins."

Kluga's eyes shift taking in their surroundings, shushes him, and then explains, "A majority of positions in Goblin society are patriarchally inherited and resources go toward educating sons. Unlike most goblins, my father thought I should learn the basics such as reading Gobbledegook. From those lessons, I taught myself other languages and subjects.

"Father died during your escape—"

Harry gasps. "I'm sooo sorry."

Her eyes shimmer, and lips twitch in appreciation of his apology. Dabbing the corner of her eye with a long bony finger, she smiles weakly. "No worries. None at all, Mr. Potter. I understand why it had to happen." She clears her throat and continues, "Father died before producing a male heir, and as the eldest child, his responsibilities would fall to me. It was assumed that the open spot would go to the next goblin on the Vocational General Waiting Registry since I didn't have the required skills."

With a crafty smirk, she says, "But I did."

Harry interjects, "But the burglary happened years ago, and it seems like you only just acquired the position."

In a more subdued tone, Kluga responds, "There was a never-ending litany of hearings. Cases of Contention. Tests of my aptitude. Tests of my mental state," she sighs. "If it weren't for Ms. Granger—"

"Hermione Granger?"

"Yes. If it weren't for her lobbying for me during the most recent Interspecies Assembly, the goblin leadership might not have conceded in my favor."

A twinge of guilt stabs Harry when he thinks of bailing on Hermione. She tends to unnecessarily worry.

The odd duo approach a long, dank spiraling staircase with a sneering goblin guard flanking each side. "Watch your step," Kluga warns; her words reverberating down the winding steps.

At the bottom of the stairwell, they approach a thick bronze-hammered door. Deep random gouges mar its polished surface, looking like a clawed beast had used it as a scratching post.

Strangled coarse speech crawls out of Kluga's throat, and the haphazard marks on the entryway begin to flicker like air blowing on dying embers. The entrance grows brighter and brighter with every word she speaks until it seems as though the molten metal door will melt onto the dusty floor. Eyes watering, Harry raises an arm to block the intensity. A series of muffled clicks from all sides of the rectangular frame cause Harry to jump. With a whoosh of cool air, the door pops open an inch.

Harry notices that Kluga's light-sensitive eyes squeeze shut in pain. Reopening her dark wet pools, she pulls the round ring handle to the once again dull door.

The entire room, hewn from black stone, glitters with veins of goblin silver and gold. Glowing orbs that look like dandelion tufts float above their heads and dance in an endless shift of menacing formations. Innumerable keyholes puncture the rolling uneven walls of the cavern and ascend up into a shadowed vastness.

Kluga guides Harry to a center circular floor medallion made of ivory marble. A bare gold table, with more scratches or in actuality, indecipherable Gobbledegook, juts like a sword hilt from the middle of the tiled circle.

"Mr. Potter, stay within the white border. I'll return in two shakes of a unicorn's tail."

Harry takes a step to see where the she-goblin was heading when the hovering lights above turn a warning red. The auror quickly repositions his foot to its original spot and the whizzing spheres dim and hum in satisfaction.

Kluga comes back with a thimble-sized black cube. She carefully sets it on the precious metal surface like a sacrificial offering.

A second later, the tiny container begins to expand in size until it's about as long as Harry's forearm and as deep and tall as his palm.

The she-goblin hands him his key, crumpled wrapper, and something else—another letter. Harry groans.

Gesturing to the coal-black box, Kluga says, "You can take all or none of the items deposited. Once you've decided, relock the security box and be sure to retrieve your belongings, including your key."

Scrunching his brow, the auror asks, "Don't you need to prove my identity or something before giving me all this?"

Kluga commences reciting a well-rehearsed answer. "Protecting your best interest is very important to Gringotts, and we strive to maintain plausible deniability. When accessing your vault, we will respect your privacy. Our record of security is unparalleled. If you are worried about the safety of any item off our premises; we sell excellent home safes for your convenience. Would you like to see our deluxe model?"

With a forced smile, Harry responds, "Uh, thanks, but no thank you."

With a quick nod, the she-goblin says, "When you're done, say, '_absolutus_,' and the exit will appear."

Heartbeat beginning to accelerate when thinking of what he might find, he asks, "Can I contact you if I have any further questions?"

After a whistle of wind and a small spark, a peach-colored business card appears between her clutched thumb and index finger. "Here," she grins and hands it to him.

Harry reads the sharp-cornered firm piece of paper with gold embossed type:

Kluga, Teller of Claustellum Cavern  
>Owl or Floo<br>Work: Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Counter Fourteen  
>Home: Burrow under Teutates Falls<p>

A genuine broad smile creeps on to her face, "Isn't it brilliant. I received them, yesterday. Well, I must be on my way."

Before she takes a step to leave, Harry says, "Wait a second." He pulls out a pair of muggle sunglasses from his jacket. "For you."

She tilts her head. "What is it?"

"Spectacles that block bright light. Wear them the next time you open the vault door."

"Oh, a sun cheater!" She excitedly hops once and grabs the plastic frames and tinted lenses. "I have read of it."

Kluga enfolds her hands around Harry's offering and places them over her heart. She gives a solemn bow and thanks him before running out of the room; the door bolting behind her.

Harry berates to himself, "I'm an accessory to her father's death and gave her five pound shades," then shakes his head in disgust.

The key clinks on the tabletop in front of its lock. The folded bit of vellum once again resides in the auror's pocket.

Harry's wrists consecutively twist; fingers switching ownership of the unopened document. An official Gringotts seal flashes with each rotation, teasing his curiosity.

Postponing the inevitable no longer, Harry rips open the closure. A hiss of sparkles flies into his face, causing him to sneeze. Sniffing, he unfolds the crisp stationary.

Dear Mr. Harry James Potter:

I am obliged to inform you that the will of Severus Prince Snape bequeaths you the following:

One (1) Chest, warded  
>One (1) Wand, birch, eleven (11) inches, llamia hair, sturdy yet flexible, previously owned by deceased<br>One (1) Revoco Sphere, warded to Harry James Potter

Regards,  
>Prosonk<br>Head Solicitor, Gringotts Wizarding Bank

Huh. Wasn't expecting that. Venomous snakes. Maybe. A knut. Sure. Perhaps an illicit potion. Unequivocally. But not Snape's wand.

Harry inserts the goblin-crafted key into the lock. With a snap, the coffer gradually gapes its jaw like a big yawn after a long sleep.

A smooth decorative chest constructed of a deep-brown-stained birch, inlaid with pale willow, reflects the darting luminescence overhead. The light wood and dark negative space create lilies that coil from the lid and onto the main body of the container.

Harry gently lifts the memento and follows the winding design with the soft pad of his index finger, admiring the craftsmanship and thinking. Thinking.

Revoco Sphere. Revoco Sphere. Hmm. Harry recalls hearing the words in passing while heading to the Time Chamber of the Department of Mysteries to visit the Unspeakable, Professor Saul Croaker. The auror had been in need of a time-turner for intensive workouts and obstacle course training.

Since the core research conducted by the Department of Mysteries involves love, space, thought, time, or death, the puzzling object he inherited must somehow relate to one of those themes.

Unlike what Head Auror Robards believed, Harry did consider the consequence of his actions. He had learnt from his mistake during the war and now could make split-second life-or-death decisions.

Taking into consideration what choice would benefit the most, the auror did what had to be done, regardless if another red smear of blood stained his soul.

Before opening the chest, Harry decides to find out more about the mysterious sphere. Harry obeys Kluga's orders and after placing a shrinking charm on his new possessions and pocketing them, utters the spell to reveal the exit.

Crossing the threshold, a force pushes Harry out into the hubbub of Diagon Alley. The auror leaps back, avoiding being plowed by a gaggle of gossiping witches. His leather jacket squeaks against a white marble wall huddled between two Corinthian columns.

Through the throng lit by moonlight and street lamps, he sees the Stygian maw of Knockturn Alley straight ahead. Harry turns away from the ominous street and jogs further up Diagon.

Yowls, hoots, and croaks chatter as he passes the Magical Menagerie. The storefront to the wand shop, Ollivander's, emits no light or movement. An almost illegible note, attached to the pulled-down blind on the entrance, announces that the business is closed and where the owner Garrick Ollivander can be found if there is a dire wand emergency.

As Harry's footsteps come to a halt on the cobble stone street, the giant mischievously grinned mechanized puppet sitting over the entryway of Weasleys's Wizard Wheezes greets him.

A candy red door swings open, and two wizards with short, silver hair, heads together in a heated debate, exit the periwinkle-blue building. Jimmy Kiddell, wandmaker, with a squinty-eyed scowl and Gaspard Shingleton, creator of the Self-Stirring Cauldron, with jovial green eyes, break apart and flow on either side of Harry, then immediately continue their discussion.

Harry's eyebrows arch as he watches the curmudgeon Kiddell wrap his arm snuggly around Shingleton's waist.

Floating to the left of the door, a banner undulates. Trumpets blare after Harry walks and stands before it. The voice of Founder and Co-manager George Weasley informs him that the monthly gathering of the Bits and Bobs Inventors Guild is in session.

After walking into the store, the banging of random fireworks, the low murmurs of conversation, and the stampeding of shoes as customers climb and descend various stairways swaddle around Harry in familiarity.

The auror recognizes his former partner, Ron Weasley, now also a Co-Manager of the joke shop, restocking a display of Prionsa's Breath Remedies.

"Ai, Ron." Harry yells to get his attention.

"What?" the red-head looks to-and-fro then glances over his shoulder and catches sight of his old schoolmate. "Harry? Blimey! Wasn't expecting to see you till Sunday dinner."

The two embrace in a quick hug with two pats on each other's back.

"New shipment?" Harry inquires.

Ron nods and his cheek quirks. "I hate that we have to carry 'em, but they are the best mints on the market. Especially, the bloody pumpkin juice ones. Merlin, I swear Malfoy puts something in them to make 'em so blooming addictive."

After departing the Ministry, it was soon discovered that Ron had a killer business sense. From his guidance, Weasleys's Wizard Wheezes annual earnings quadrupled.

"Needing something, Harry? Unless it's personal care. 'Cause you being married to my sis', there're some things I just never wish to know."

Harry face cracks a smile. "Actually, I was hoping to get your brother's expertise on something I inherited."

"Inherited? From who."

"Uh. Snape if you can believe it."

Ron's face loses all expression. "Snape?" He screeches.

Rubbing his crown with his hand, Harry drawls, "Yeah."

"Well, what did you get? Wait. I might not want to know."

Shaking his head at Ron's reaction, Harry says, "He gave me a Revoco Sphere and his wand."

A mop of disheveled white hair materializes between the conferring friends and a soft raspy voice says, "Wand? Did you say Mr. Potter"

The two men leap in surprise.

"Crikey Mr. Ollivander! You shouldn't go sneaking up on people," Ron wheezes.

The wandmaker's googly pale, silver eyes widen and his thin lips say, "Mr. Weasley, how do you expect me to obtain the ingredients for my craft if I go stomping about."

Harry smiles. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. How's your son doing?"

"Good. Good. It is strange though."

"What's strange, sir?" Harry asks.

"Strange that you should inherit a wand. Most wands are buried or cremated with their prior owners. Do you have it with you?"

"Uh. Yeah but it's in a warded chest, and I wanted to learn more about the contents before opening it."

"Of course. Of course. May I ask who the wand belonged to?"

"Severus Snape."

Ollivander nods his head in thought. "Ah, I see. Mr. Snape purchased his wand the same day as you mother. Did you know?"

"I can't say that I did, sir."

"A very particular match they were."

"Match?"

"Yes. Mr. Snape's wand was made out of birch, measured eleven inches, and was sturdy yet flexible. Your mother's wand was made out of willow, measured ten-and-three-quarters, and was quite swishy. But what they had in common were their cores. Both of their wands contained a strand of llamia hair one each from a pair of fraternal twins. Much like you and He-Who-Shan't-Be-Named, they possessed, rather literally, sibling wands."

Sighing in fond remembrance, the old wizard continues, "The creatures were most beautiful. One had the upper-body of a stunning maiden and the lower-body of a snake. Her dancing and swaying figure was hypnotic and lovey. Her brother was a warrior through-and-through; the bottom-half of his body was that of a lion.

"After striking up a conversation, they felt honored to donate, and each gave me a single blond strand. The woman's hair resembled patinaed copper while her twin's mane was a rich gold. During my many journeys, I have yet to again find beings of such grace.

"It is fortunate that such a unique wand has not been lost. I trust you will take good care of it, Mr. Potter"

"Of course, sir." Harry replies with humble respect. Trying to move along the discussion, Harry says, "I'm guessing, since you're up here, that the meeting's over."

"You are correct, young man. I must be returning to my shop." With a sharp dip of his head, Ollivander says, "Good evening to you both."

"Good evening, Mr. Ollivander." Harry shakes the eccentric wizard's hand.

Opening a tin of mints and tossing a few onto his tongue, Ron wishes the wandmaker safe travels until the next guild get-together; the smell of pumpkin and hints of nutmeg and cinnamon permeate the air.

Swallowing the fragrant crush of orange gravel, Ron suggests, "Well, let's give George a holler then."

Harry drags his feet behind Ron. Since the war, it has been difficult for Harry to visit George. The death of George's twin Fred always seems to invade their every interaction. Both know what it means to come up short. Not being able to protect those who would do the same for you. To make a mistake that has such life altering results. Losing a loved one so suddenly, the lost potential—the what ifs—being the harshest pain to endure.

The whole family became worried about George when he suffered near death injuries, after a questionable accident three years ago. It was agreed that Ron should turn in his auror robes and start helping, more like keeping an eye on, his elder brother in the store.

The friends stroll behind the counter that housed the register, and Ron taps a small hanging mirror three times with his wand. George's face spirals into existence. Like a funhouse mirror, his cheeks are pushed together and his forehead bulges. An oddly assembled device made out of brass clings to his head. On a headband, a funnel like contraption protrudes from where his left ear used to be; the organ severed and lost during the war. Over the right-side of his face, a magnifying lens grotesquely enlarges his chestnut brown eye.

"Ahhh, Harry! Good of you to visit. I just began something in the lab. Everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. How's the new addition?"

"Good. Angie's over-the-moon that Roxi slept through the night. How's the holster fairing? Need any adjustments?"

"No, it's been working great! Thanks again! Definitely my favorite birthday gift this year." After the war, George started tinkering in weapon fabrication. It turned into the successful side-business Weasley's Wizarding Weapons.

Green sparks flash and reflect off the red-heads fair skin, and smoke obstructs George's image. "Uhh. I don't think you should come back here at the moment."

"Maybe you can help me from there. Do you know what a Revoco Sphere is?"

"Sure. A Revoco Sphere has similar mechanics and spells as a Remembrall and pensieve. It can copy, store, and provide access to memories, wherever. There's been an ongoing lawsuit as to who owns the rights so the spheres are very hard to come by.

"Why do you ask, Harry?"

"I was given one." Brows furrowing, the auror inquires, "What does it mean if it's warded?"

"If it's specifically warded to you, all you have to do is hold it in your dominate hand and state your full name."

"So it won't suck out all my memories, leaving me a vegetable."

Snickering, George says, "No, nothing like that."

Harry nods in satisfaction. "Alright, then. Thanks George."

The Black Forest cuckoo clock on the wall, chimes and a brood of fairies zoom and dance over the room singing that its eight o'clock.

"Shite!" Harry yells. "I didn't realize the time."

"You wanna floo home from here," Ron asks.

"Nope. Can't. Ginny's not home yet, and I activated the exterior wards before I left." Rushing towards the exit, Harry shouts, "I should see you both at dinner tomorrow, if not, say hello to Mum and Dad for me."

"Will do, Mate." Ron waves goodbye.

"See you Harry." George's skewed picture flickers and the mirror blanks.

Harry yanks open the front door and as soon as he is no longer restricted by anti-apparating wards, with a loud clap, disappears to Godric's Hollow.

Quickly unlocking the door to his home, Harry sprints down the hallway to the small library and tosses glittery power into the fireplace. The rush of green flames gusts against his face.

"Hi Uncle Hare!" A five-year-old boy in flying broom pajamas happily exclaims.

"Sorry, I'm a little late. You ready Teddy?"

"Uh huh." His godson confirms, placing a small hand over his mouth to cover a large yawn. The little boy curls up in front of the fire and hugs a huge pillow.

Ever since the war ended, Teddy Lupin had awful nightmares, particularly on the day both his parents Remus, a werewolf, and Nymphadora, a metamorphmagus, died; their life strings cut short during the final battle, on a fateful Saturday.

When Teddy was an inconsolable baby, only Harry could rock his godson to sleep. As Teddy grew older, Harry called every Saturday to keep the worst of the little boy's nightmares at bay.

Harry picks up his godson's favorite book "Guess How Much I Love You" by Sam McBratney, resting on the stone mantle. He sits down on a worn Persian rug with a few char marks next to a rosy marble hearth and begins, "Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed…"

The thrum of Harry's voice calms the little boy, and before reaching the stories conclusion, Teddy's face smiles from a pleasant dream. Harry kneels down into the floo call and checks on his godson. The little boy's face is relaxed and so innocent that it hurts.

Harry rapidly blinks his eyes, fighting his emotions. Love. Guilt. Fear.

He strokes the boy's cheek and voice cracking whispers the last line of the story from memory. "I love you right up to the moon—and back."

After quietly extinguishing the connection, Harry climbs upstairs. He plops on his side of the mattress and rightens the glass tipped over on his nightstand.

"_Accio_ _firewhisky_." A bottle from deep in his closet flies into his outstretched hand. Harry pours the amber liquid into the clear tumbler, relaxes on his bed, and takes a deep sip. Closing his eyes, he concentrates on the bitter burn as it flows down his throat and tries to forget his many mistakes.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

"…Sweetheart," a kind, soft voice whispers.

Bars block his view. Yelling.

So scary.

"Harry!"

"Mum, I'll protect you!" Blast of bright green.

A shrill shriek.

"Harry," cries a woman.

Cracking his crusted eyes open, Harry groans. His mouth feels dry and jaw stiff. Groping around on his nightstand, his hand bumps a hard object; shattering glass startles him into wakefulness.

A voice calls his name.

"Gin?" Harry answers gravelly. He grasps his wand, and the dark room fills with a faint glow.

Harry turns to glance at his wife lying next to him. Dark-red stains her nightgown, over the entirety of her chest, thickest between her breasts. Blood dribbles from her nose and mouth.

"By Merlin! Ginny!" Harry flings the saturated sheets off her, draws his wife into his arms, and leaps to his feet, experiencing no pain as glass cuts into his vulnerable skin.

"Ginny, Ginny," Harry sobs. "I'm so sorry." What-have-I-done repeats in Harry's mind over and over and over again.

Ginny's scarlet hair hangs limply like the rest of her unresponsive body cradled in his arms. Her bone-white skin only slightly contrasts with her pale blue lips. Light hitting her lashes creates long shadows on her cheeks that look like hungry denizens awaiting to steal her soul away.

Harry carries his wife down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the book strewn library. He dips his shaking hand into an enameled bowl that sits on the mantel and grabs a pile of glistening dust. The glass container tips over, spraying out its contents, and hits the rug; a new hairline crack now visible on its once unblemished side.

Being sure not to jar his wife with his movements, he enters the fireplace, yells, "St. Mungo's Hospital," and throws the handful of floo powder next to his bare foot bleeding over caked soot.

The key to travelling by floo is not thinking that your body is only standing upon the floor, but thinking that your body is anchored to the Earth's core. With that thought in mind, Harry arrives in the bustling Emergency Ward of the Spell Damage Unit without stumbling and harming Ginny further.

The strong acrid smell of salves and opened potion bottles prickle the inside of Harry's nose. Stark light-blue walls, beige privacy curtains, and intense conjured overhead illumination backdrop the constant motion of Healers tending to patients.

A witch in a uniform of fitted-lime-green robes approaches Harry. "Sir, what happened?" She brusquely asks as she levitates Ginny to an empty bed. A team of Healers immediately surround and begin to evaluate his unconscious wife.

"Accidental Magic," Harry replies in a deadened tone.

"By a child?"

"By me."

The woman's eyes narrow. "And your name, sir?"

"Harry Potter."

The woman gasps and stutters, "A-Auror Potter?"

Harry nods and clears his face of his long disheveled hair. He moves trying to get a better view of Ginny and winces from the burning puncture wounds on the bottom of his feet.

The Healer frowns, noticing Harry's bloody footprints, and points towards the comatose woman. "And that's…"

Harry's lips tremble and in a soft vehement voice, he answers, "My wife…" With growing volume, he cries, "Ginny. Oh, Merlin."

"Auror Potter." Louder, she again says, "Auror Potter," breaking Harry's rising panic. "How long ago was your wife injured?"

"Only a few minutes ago. I-I was having a nightmare and when I woke up, she was…"

One of the Healers by Ginny's side begins shouting orders.

"What's happening! What's happening to her?" Harry yells and strides towards the group of wizards and witches who were rapidly casting spells and uncorking numerous bottles.

A Healer aims her wand at the curtain near the head of Ginny's bed, and it swings around activating wards that prevent Harry's advancement and blocks any sound from escaping.

The witch, who had been questioning him, lightly sets her hand on Harry's arm. "I'm sorry Auror Potter, but I'm going to have to ask you to follow me." She guides him into a wheelchair that had rolled to them by itself. While the Healer escorts him to a bed on the far, opposite side of the room, she says, "Your wife's in excellent hands. We don't want to hinder her care by interrupting."

With the witch's assistance, Harry climbs onto crisp cotton sheets and lies down. Without watching him, she performs a wordless _Tergeo_, and his clothes that had been soaked with Ginny's blood are once again spotless and dry.

The Healer examines his feet and removes any obvious pieces of glass and places them into a ceramic kidney dish. Next she takes out a coral-pink potion from her medi-satchel and sets it in Harry's hand. His palm remains opened-flat, and the glass container rocks with his shuddering. He stares at the woman, glances at the unknown concoction, and looks at her once more.

"A Calming Draught, Auror Potter." She answers his unspoken question.

While Harry gulps the prescribed brew, he watches as she unlocks a cupboard with a swish of her wand and pulls out a small tan crock of healing unguent. The sour odor of rotten lemons and earthy herbs grows stronger when she starts salving the ointment onto his feet. His pain gradually changes from sharp torrents to dull aches.

The Healer smiles and says, "Here. Let me take this for you." The Auror feels a yank and glances down. Still clutched in his right hand is his forgotten wand. Knuckles white, his fist painfully releases its stiff grip around the wooden rod.

She deposits his wand on a retracted, stainless-steel tray. The wood cylinder rolls across the shiny angled surface, creating a sound like quiet thunder; the lip of the metal sheet stopping it from toppling over the edge.

"You'll need to remain off your feet for a few hours so any embedded shards can work their way out. In the meantime, rest. As soon as more is known about your wife's condition, you'll be informed.

"If you need anything, just press green." She points at the rectangular box, topped with various unmarked buttons, bobbing weightlessly above his bed rail. "And I'm Healer Thornflos by the way."

"Thank you, Healer Thornflos," slurs Harry. "I'm..feeling…so tired." His eyelids shut.

"The potion you took will also help you sleep."

"No. No!" Straining to keep his eyes open, he says, "What if she…" But the potion is too potent, and Harry descends into darkness.

* * *

><p>As Harry dozes, flashes of sensation taunt him. Sweetness coating his tongue. Hot slick skin. Moans of pleasure. Ginny's name echoes in his mind and the emotion of great loss weighs his soul.<p>

Harry tosses and turns, mumbling her name.

"Auror Potter." A hand grasps Harry's shoulder and jostles him. "Auror Potter. I have news about your wife."

Harry's unfocused eyes discern a shadowed profile backlit by bright white light. "Ginny," he whispers in fear and reaches out a hand, thinking, "Is she gone? Has she come to say goodbye?"

The figure straightens and gruffly clears his throat. "Mrs. Potter was stabilized and is fine—"

Relief fills Harry. He has to see her. He has to see her _now_ with his own eyes. Harry makes to get off the bed, but the Healer pushes down on his chest and urges him back down.

The old wizard continues, "But she's still in a bit of shock from the loss."

"Loss?" Oh, no! What if she won't ever be able to play Quidditch again? She would never forgive him. The prickle of tears begins to sting Harry's eyes.

The Healer takes a deep breath. "Due to the severe trauma your wife sustained, the baby couldn't be saved."

"Baby?" Harry's eyes widen from the blow; all breath leaving his lungs. Two salty drops descend down his cheeks. "But…that's impossible."

"Mrs. Potter explained that you were taking Sterility Potions and thought it might be hard for you to accept, so at her insistence, tests were done. Unfortunately, it looks as if a potion failed. It's rare but bad batches sometimes slip through.

"Your wife was about three months along, and the baby was yours." The Healer's gnarly hand pats Harry's shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Auror Potter. She's conscious. You can visit her whenever you're ready. Again, my sympathies."

As the Healer departs, Harry watches a young Auror stomp towards him. He doesn't recognize the man. Must be a newer recruit.

The wizard's shaggy auburn hair virtually obscures his piercing blue eyes. His clunky boots squeak as he crosses the scuffed field of floor tiles.

Glaring at Harry, the Auror strangles the cold bed rail with each of his sweaty hands. The young man shakes his head in disgust. "I just can't believe it. I can't believe I looked up to you. Who'da thunk you're nuthin' but an abusive bastard.

Harry turns away from the man's contempt; his own guilt overwhelming him. He hadn't hurt Ginny in the way the Auror thought—but he had hurt her.

"You're wand came back clean, but that's not unexpected. Wouldn't be so hard for one such as yourself. She refuses to press charges. Not surprising—just bloody sad." The young man's jaw pulses. Freeing his grip from the metal beam, now warm and damp from his touch, the Auror grits, "You're free to leave the premises."

A restrictive ward, which Harry hadn't detected until it began to unravel, loosens its hold and releases.

The Auror tosses an object onto Harry's stomach; it bounces off, landing in the crack between his back and the sheets. "Your wand," the wizard sneers and then marches away with his russet robes swirling behind him.

Harry sighs and rubs his stubbled face with his palms. He rakes his fingers through his hair, jerking past knots, not caring when strands snap. As he checks the status of his feet by wiggling his toes, he notices a black bundle at the foot of his bed. After a quick inspection, Harry realizes that it's his leather jacket.

Also near him sit his boots, which lean against the bed frame on the floor, and a neatly folded pile of clothes, which rest on the cupboard counter. He tilts his head in thought. The house was locked; Kreacher must have brought them over.

Harry holsters his wand, manually closes his privacy curtain, and changes.

His house-elf's sense of fashion must have frozen in the seventies. The button-down shirt provided for him consists of panels of orange, red, and white. The pants are drab corduroy, and of course, the outfit wouldn't be complete without a pair of blindingly white Y-fronts. All items were previous gifts that Harry felt too guilty to get rid of so he had hidden them in the deepest recesses of his closet. At least, he was out of the clothes he had passed out in. Out of the clothes that had been covered in Ginny's blood.

After thoroughly checking all pockets, Harry feels no remorse as he throws his wrinkled former attire into the trash.

Concentrating on drawing measured even breaths, Harry walks down the lengthy ward of hospital beds. As he gets closer to Ginny's location, he spots an individual, facing away from him. The familiar balding man, tall and thin, sports a hand-knitted-carrot-hued jumper.

Harry presses his lips together and fights back tears. "Dad," he calls.

Arthur Weasley's blood-shot eyes, framed by thick-rimmed glasses, focus on Harry.

Uncertain what to do, Harry doesn't move another step until Mr. Weasley lifts and opens his arms.

Harry sinks into the embrace, burying his face into his father-in-law's shoulder; body quaking as he silently weeps.

Once Harry's tears had ebbed, Mr. Weasley pulls away, clasps the upper portion of Harry's arms, giving a firm squeeze, and says, "Hope you don't mind; Molly was able to bypass your wards because of the prior blood protections that her ancestors placed on the house. We were able to pick out a few things from your closet and pack for Ginny."

With a quick shake of his head, Harry's rough voice says, "No. Not at all." He glances down at his clothing, "I really appreciate it." Looking back into his father-in-law's soulful blue eyes, he asks, "How's she doing?"

Mr. Weasley grimaces. "Molly's with her. She still has a week before she can leave. Hasn't said much. She's resting but awake. I was on my way to the Tearoom to get off my feet, but I'll wait until after you've visited so we can talk a bit more." Smiling weakly, the older man nods in Ginny's direction and says, "Go ahead."

Harry swallows, stares at his feet, and walks to his wife's side. Raising his head, he sees Mrs. Weasley sitting on a stool on the other side of the bed. She's holding her daughter's hand and gently rubbing small circles on it with her thumb.

Harry chokes out, "I—"

Ginny turns away from him and curls into a ball.

He hovers his hand over her back, sensing the heat radiating from her body, wanting to touch her, but stopping himself. Clenching his outstretched hand and drawing it back to his side, he says, "I'm so sorry, Gin." His voice becomes even heavier and more broken. "I had…no idea. If I did…"

Mrs. Weasley's thin lips purse, and she slowly shakes her head. The plump woman's eyes, the same heartfelt brown as Ginny's, gaze sadly up at him. "Harry, dear. I don't think she's quite ready to talk to you yet."

Harry's shoulders slump, and he feels Mr. Weasley position his hands on them to guide him away.

"Come along, Harry. We don't want her growing too upset."

Harry follows Mr. Weasley not paying attention to where they were heading.

As they stroll, in a soft voice, his father figure says, "We know it was an accident, Harry, but it was an avoidable accident. Avoidable tragedy, really. You need to _finally_ accept help. You've managed to get by, but… I love you. We both do. But Ginny's our daughter, and we have to consider what's best for her..."

They come to a halt. Harry stares blankly at a brick fireplace and mindlessly nods until Mr. Weasley's voice ceases to speak. He receives a parting hug from Mr. Weasley and a handful of floo powder. Harry lets the dust fall through his fingers and dutifully mumbles. He doesn't notice the usual vertigo as a force squeezes his feet, legs, torso, and head through winding holes of space and time. With a green after image floating across his vision, Harry once again stands in his library.

Harry gazes at the ground for a few minutes. No blood mars the floor. Was all that transpired just another nightmare? Stepping from the hearth, he glances up at the mantel. The bowl decorated with a pair of flying swans still bears its recent crack. No, not a dream.

Harry finally takes a step. And then another, and another. His eyes shine but shed no tears. His breathing hitches, ribcage spasms, and his arms tremble. And then, collapsing hard onto his knees—a long wail erupts from chest, up his throat, and out his mouth; a harsh inhale following.

He crawls on the kitchen floor to the oak cabinet. Slamming his fist through its glass door, Harry wrenches out the first bottle his hand touches. As tears flow unbidden down his face, he begins to guzzle the searing liquid.

Finally…sweet oblivion.

* * *

><p>A wet sucking sound, as Harry's cheek separates from the puddle of cold drool, breaks the stillness of the dim kitchen. He rolls onto his back with a groan and places a hand on his pounding head. A sharp sting triggers him to open his eyes, and he spots a deep gash across the back of his knuckles. Dried crimson flakes away when he flexes his hand.<p>

After staggering to his feet, Harry balances against the breakfast table and fumbles around in his jacket pocket. His fingers find the small brass tin they were searching for and yank it out. He struggles to pop the lid, but once he succeeds, quickly tosses a mint into his mouth. As the tablet dissolves on Harry's tongue, his headache eases, and he exhales in relief.

A crimson dot drips on to the cotton tablecloth rapidly followed by two others. Harry grabs a discarded napkin and compresses it over the reopened wound on his hand.

He's about the release his wand and perform a simple healing charm when he thinks better of it. Since his magical credit limit has been greatly reduced, he should really start trying to conserve his spell usage whenever possible. So instead, Harry trudges up the steep staircase and into the only bathroom in the house through its hall entrance.

Self-igniting lamps flair to life when Harry opens the lavatory door. He rifles through the many drawers and cabinets until he discovers a jar of Murtlap Essence. Once Harry finished applying the healing solution and a bandage to his cut, he exits into the bedroom. The scene before him jolts his heart.

Stumbling and fighting back nausea, he plops down into a cushioned, corner chair.

On the armrest, Harry's fingernails absentmindedly pick at frayed, lilac upholstery fabric. He fixes his gaze on the perfectly made bed before him. The room smells of fresh, clean linens. He can't even see one mote of dust floating in the air. Mrs. Weasley did such a thorough job of erasing any speck of gore that she had turned the room into a tomb.

Harry can't drag his eyes away from the bed. The last time Ginny and he had made love was…on his birthday about three months ago. Three months. A tear splatters onto his pant leg.

Last July, he was becoming very dejected, not having had any success obtaining leads on the trafficking ring. The family had made a real effort to battle another bout of his depression with a great bash. From what he can recollect after the razz, it had been such a happy day.

Fuck it. He can use a bit of remembered joy, especially now. Leaning over, Harry unholsters his wand. He pokes the tip into his temple and says, "_Denuo_."

At first, memories from hours ago flash by, then days, and finally months until Harry's eyes open to the familiar view of a vaulted cream-painted ceiling pierced by dark-stained support beams.

Warm arms wrap around Harry's firm abdomen and a head rests on his chest. The lithe body rises above him as he deeply inhales the scent of sweet tea roses. Looking into crinkled eyes, his mouth answers the offered smile with one of his own. A kiss lands more on exposed teeth than on his lips, and he feels the vibrations from throaty amusement judder against his chest.

"Happy twenty-third birthday, Harry," his wife whispers into his ear.

"Thanks, Gin." He tucks a ruby lock of her hair behind an ear and strokes her cheek.

"I know the previous couple of months haven't been easy, but today is your day…and," an impish simper spreads across her face, "I promise tonight will be unforgettable," she says waggling her eyebrows. "But first you need to get ready. You've slept-in enough." Harry groans as she tugs on his arm encouraging him to get out of bed.

"Come. On." She drawls out. "Take your shower. I'll start…breakfast?" Her brows scrunch. "Lunch? Brunch?" Ginny grins. "Well, whichever it is, you shall be eating like a king. I bought some fabulous imported thick-cut bacon..."

The smile on his wife's face gradually twists into a frown. She glides towards his nightstand and picks up a gold key. Dangling the piece of precious metal between two fingers for Harry to see, she says, "You know how I feel about leaving our vault key in any old place."

Harry forces himself not to roll his eyes. "Ginny, it was right next to me."

"No excuses, Harry. I hate that you make me have to nag you; I don't like doing it." She sighs. "But you can't keep something this valuable out in the open. Please, next time put it away after you're done. I'll go down to the library and…"

Harry's consciousness prods at the Recall Spell. He doesn't want to relive any arguments or routine happenings.

Time leaps forward.

The summer heat intensifies the fragrances from the orchard located behind the Weasley family home. His friends and family are tucking into a feast organized by Hermione, prepared by Mrs. Weasley, and—supervised by Ginny.

Red and gold lanterns, floating above the long table, waver in the evening breeze. The yellow-green luminescence from lightning bugs reflects in the nearby pond. Croaks from frogs and songs from crickets add their own voices to the amicable chatter of the party-goers.

Harry watches Ron single-handedly devour the enormous roast that Hagrid had delivered earlier in the day.

As Mrs. Weasley stands up to leave the table, she says, "Ron. Weasley. Pace yourself or you'll need to be dragon-lifted from the table."

Ron's face screws in indignation and with his mouth still full says. "Wha'."

Hermione covers her snickering with a hand until she regains her composure and then informs her fiancé, "What she means Ronald is save some room for dessert. Or at least save some for Luna, who has an excuse for a third helping—she's expecting twins."

Harry starts laughing at Ron's reddening face, but pretends to come down with a coughing fit when his best friend glares at him. While raising his goblet in an attempt to hide his twitching lips, slim fingers loop around his wrist. Massaging his pulse-point with her thumb, Ginny tops his glass with more wine.

Already feeling a strong buzz, Harry smiles broadly at her and with a husky tone says, "Thanks, Gin."

Her answer is a lingering kiss on his ear.

"Now, none of that," George shouts seriously, blocking Fred Junior's eyes with his hands. "Think of the children," he cries in an exaggerated high falsetto, and the table bursts into hoots and laughter.

Oohs and aahs and explosions of colors catch Harry's attention.

Mrs. Weasley beams as she carries a five-layer treacle tart. It totters to-and-fro and would have toppled over if not for a few well-placed spells. A grand total of twenty-three floating candles are divvied between each story of the confection and a miniature fireworks display—thanks to George—whistles and pops atop its peak.

Eyes like saucers, Harry says, "I'm going to need all the help I can get to blow out the candles on _that_."

Harry calls Teddy, who's chasing after a garden gnome, and gestures for the little boy to sit next to him.

All the attendees sing the guest of honor "Happy Birthday." The whole Weasley clan, except for Charlie who is researching Lightning Dragons in Iceland. Hermione, though not an official member of the family, was all but presumed to be one. Neville and his girlfriend Hannah. A very pregnant Luna and her husband Rolf. Hagrid and his long-lived canine companion Fang. And of course, Teddy with his guardian and grandmother, the widow Andromeda Tonks.

"Hurry. Make a wish." Luna encourages.

Jumping up and down excitedly, Teddy groans, "Come on, Uncle Hare."

"Okay everyone. On the count of three," Harry instructs.

I wish…

"One!" shouts the guests.

…all who I love…

"Two!"

…prosperity and happiness.

"Three."

Harry grips his wand under the table. As he and everyone within range blows air on the flickering candles, Harry wordlessly casts the _Ventus_ jinx. A strong wind extinguishes all the flames at once and sends smoke spiraling into the starry night sky. His loved ones cheer, clap, and begin clamoring whether they want a cream or custard topping.

George, his eyebrows arched in a wicked grin, cups a hand around his mouth and whispers, "Couldn't have done it better myself, mate."

When Teddy starts nodding off above his syrupy plate, Mrs. Tonks decorously lays her fingers on Harry's palm and wishes Harry a goodnight.

Since Luna and Rolf are on hiatus from their jobs as magizoologists until the babies are born, they have been staying at Mrs. Tonks' residence, the bed and breakfast, The Fetching Inn. The couple decides to leave with the matriarch so Rolf can help carry the snoozing Teddy home.

Luna's airy laughter and her husband's low rumble sound when Harry gives them each a big bear hug goodbye. Watching Teddy softly snoring in Rolf's dark arms, Harry brushes his godson's bangs away from his forehead and places a quick kiss.

Once all the Weasley children are tucked into bed, Hagrid reveals a large jug of moonshine and the late-night revelry commences.

When most of the guests had retired for the evening, Mr. Weasley comes running from the direction of the barn waving something over his head.

Winded, the wizard swallows hard and says, "One more gift Harry. I was hoping to give it to you with everyone else's but the fine-tuning took longer than I had initially estimated. Here you are."

Harry, rather sloshed, struggles with the wrapper made from an old sheet of the Daily Prophet. After Harry exposes the steel-gray case with various colored wires hanging from it, his face lights up and he slurs, "Thanks s'Dad." He almost loses his equilibrium when he gives Mr. Weasley a tight squeeze and proceeds to slap a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

His father-in-law, chuckling, explains, "The booster is now fully automatic and has two settings—"

"At this point Dad," Ron interrupts, "I don't anticipate the birthday boy'll be retaining much of anything you say," he finishes with a snigger.

Harry's awareness has to agree with his friend. He was so bladdered from Hagrid's lethal homebrew that much of this is new to him.

Mrs. Weasley exhales, "Well, today went swimmingly. Don't you think?" She squints an eye at George and Ron. "It's getting late. Boys why don't you go and help Ginny take Harry…"

Time skips ahead.

Back in Godric's Hollow, George tugs Harry's arms and Ron pushes his bum up the stairwell. A few of the mish mash of photos that frame the adjacent wallpapered wall are knocked askew.

Dropping unceremoniously face-up onto the mattress, the bed jiggles from Harry's impact.

Ginny's brothers wish her well and give her a peck goodbye.

Eyelids closed, Harry listens as his wife walks towards a window and stands there until the thump of the front door reverberates through the house.

With the soft swish of garments falling to the floor, each pad of her foot grows louder.

Harry's weight shifts as Ginny slinks on to the mattress. Thighs, strong from frequent broom flying, straddle his hips.

He groggily opens his eyes and mumbles, "Gin?"

His wife's hair, unknotted from its tight bun, spills around her elfin features. Freckles decorate her fair skin and draw his gaze to the pert mounds on her chest.

She whispers in his ear, "Your birthday's not over yet."

Sighing, Harry shuts his eyes and says, "Can we d'this t'morrow. I'm tire'."

"Don't worry Harry. I'll do all the work. You just enjoy yourself." She whips her wand through the air, and his wrists are yanked above his head and restrained.

"Gin what'er ya doin'?"

In a coquettish manner, she says, "Thought we might try something more adventurous; spicin' things up a bit." She flicks the end of his nose with her tongue. "I did promise you a night that would be unforgettable."

He strains against the conjured shackles and realizes his spread legs are restricted as well.

"Gin," Harry demands, "lemme up."

"Please," her eyes implore, "you've been so busy; it's been weeks. Just give it a try, Sweetheart, please."

"N—"

Not waiting another moment, she engulfs his mouth with her own in a deep kiss and doesn't stop until she can see his cock start to harden underneath his pants.

Nibbling her way down to his collarbone, her fingers begin to unfasten the buttons of his dress shirt. As his flushed skin is revealed, inch-by-inch, her silky lips kiss; hot tongue swirls, and white teeth taunt, marking him with rosy blotches.

Harry can't help but moan in pleasure, thrashing his bound arms and legs.

Ginny's nails feather over his chest and erect nipples as she shoves away cotton fabric. Harry's body, toned and slightly tanned from his work as an Auror, shivers from her hungry stare.

Gliding her hazel-wood wand along his skin, she trails the line of his breastbone to the center ridge of his abdominal muscles down until she tickles the dark patch below his belly button that continues under his fastened pants.

She roughly palms his hard-on through his slacks and his back bows away from the bed.

A charm unbuttons his trousers and slowly unzips his fly. Fabric forcibly tearing apart causes Harry's heartbeat to quicken. Each leg of both his boxer-briefs and pants split in half down the middle. The cloth splays open and reveals his lower body. Cool air assaults his rigid sensitive shaft.

Scooting down, Ginny's juices smear on his leg. She grips her fingers around his velvety skin causing Harry to grunt. While she pumps his cock until a bead of pre-cum leaks out from its tiny mouth, Harry's form writhes and his toes curl. He gasps and wantonly arches his neck when his wife licks the shiny head.

Smacking her lips, she says, "You taste so good," then sighs, "I've missed this."

"Gin," Harry begs. He starts panicking and rocks his head back-and-forth; the confinement unearthing horrible memories of when he was at Voldemort's mercy, and he screams, "Untie me!"

"I know you're also attracted to men, Harry." Beneath his sweaty brow, his eyes widen. "Sometimes," she continues, "when you're sleeping, I hear you moan their names; it doesn't bother me—they're dreams. I just wished you'd confide in me like you used to." Ginny looks into his upset eyes and fervently says, "Harry for your birthday, I'm giving you what you want—what you truly need. I refuse to give up on us."

Ginny proceeds to stick the tip of her wand in her mouth and coats it with saliva. Her wand presses against his virgin opening. Harry vigorously shakes his head "no" and he tries to maneuver out of the way.

After gingerly slipping the dark rod into Harry's puckered hole, Ginny says, "_Tremo_."

Harry's mouth opens in a silent cry as foreign vibrations shoots waves of pulsing warmth throughout his entire body. Even with her gentle handling, a trickle of blood slides from his impaled bottom. His newfound pleasure overrides any discomfort, and heavy-lidded he compulsively fucks the air.

His wife reposition her slick folds over his leaking member and with one sure plunge, envelops him in her heat.

Through the fog of his drunkenness and arousal Harry shouts, "Wait!" Panting, he says, "M'Sterility Potion." When her hips rise, he groans, "N'Stop."

Ginny pulls out a bottle from under a pillow. "Relax. It's right here," she soothes. The stopper is discarded on the floor and she pours the potion into her mouth. After swallowing a small amount, she bends over and urges his lips to spread giving him the rest of the cloyingly sweet potion with a kiss.

Harry's consciousness thus far has had mixed emotions, but after glimpsing the bottle in Ginny's hand, he knows something is wrong.

His usual potion resembles clear water, not a dark, red, nearly black syrup, and it tastes bitter not sweet.

Ginny begins to pant hard; her pupils becoming so dilated that her eyes resemble fathomless pits.

A second later, lust like fire consumes Harry's mind and body. His already aroused cock hardens even further—

Harry's current self reflects, "She didn't become pregnant because of a bad potion batch as he was led to believe. She tricked me! She lied to me!...She used me."

Harry ejects his awareness, keeping himself from having to re-experience all sensations from a first-person perspective. Instead, he stands by the bedside and watches as if it were a typical Pensieve memory.

"No," he says in disbelief as Ginny's fucks his moaning doppelgänger. "I-I can't believe you…you forced me," he yells at his unhearing wife. "Did you actually expect _this_ would solve all of our problems, Ginny? A baby. I know you argued that George got better after Fred was born, but I'm. Not. Him!"

Ginny flings her head back and screams, "Harry," as her walls spasm and coax the shaft hidden within her. Her victim bucks his own completion with incoherent shouts of endearments.

Smiling dumbly at his wife, pseudo-Harry croons, "You're m'sun Gin; I'd 'ave drown n' for you aft'r th' war. N'matter how deep I sunk, y'were there."

Stroking his cheek and releasing the binding spell, she shushes him and quietly says, "Sleep, Sweetheart."

"Love y'Gin," he mumbles and falls asleep.

Harry's breath catches as the Recall Charm terminates. Leaping from the antique armchair, the view of the pristine bed hammers his heart into a pulpy mess. With a bellowing roar, he thrusts his wand at the repulsive sight and booms, "_Bombarda_!" Wood splinters and the mattress shreds; tufts of cotton float in the air.

Nonverbally flinging open the door to her closet, he combusts everything within it. Every bag. Every dress. Everything.

Harry rushes down the stairs, needing to escape the scene of his violation. As he descends, he slings one blast that simultaneously shatters any wall hanging that frames an image of his wife. Just thinking the word "wife" makes him sick.

Shiny metal captures his attention as Harry walks down the hallway. He backtracks and enters the family room. A wall, dedicated to Ginny's Quidditch trophies and medals, mocks him. He's about to throw another spell but stops. Fuck her! After her betrayal, she's not worth any more credits or seconds of his life.

Harry passes into the library, standing in the middle, he demands, "Accio Potter Vault Key."

A book from a shelf smacks onto the floor. Harry grabs the hardcover, titled _Alcoholism: The First Step Is Admitting You Have a Problem_. Curling his lip, he says, "Real bloody subtle, Ginny."

From the wards placed upon the book, it feels fuzzy, like it conducts a static charge. Harry lifts the front cover, and a familiar key, inherited from his mum and dad, gleams within a shallow hollow. The key slips into his jacket pocket, and his fingers search for another item. While striding to the fireplace, he finds what he wanted and ignites a floo call.

Kneeling down, he reads the cheery colored piece of cardstock in his mind: Burrow under Teutates Falls and then plunges his head into green flames.

In a workshop of sorts, two she-goblins busy by the fire. One quite large for a goblin, let alone a she-goblin, sharpens a wicked-looking sword, and the other, so petite she wouldn't reach his knees, is…welding; sparks from her work falling onto the hearth.

The weapon wielding she-goblin points her blade at him and in a rich soprano voice asks, "Who. Are. You?"

Flinching away, Harry cautiously asks, "Is Kluga home?"

The welder's child-like voice screams, "Kluga! You have a call!"

"Who is it, Lista?" Kluga's shouts back.

Before Lista can respond, the intimidating she-goblin jabs her blade and growls, "He won't say."

"I'm Harry Potter. Kluga gave—"

"Oh, Medusa's girdle!" Kluga cries, racing into the room. "For Ragnuk's sword! Lower your weapon, Rassig," she says in a harsh hushed tone. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Potter. Don't mind my _younger_ sisters," she grits. "How can I be of service? Did you want to go ahead and purchase a safe?"

A laugh escapes his lips, "Ah, no. I was wondering if you can help me with my estate."

Kluga's eyes open wide. "Y-You want me to be your Solicitor?"

"Can a Solicitor stop my wife from accessing all assets that I owned before we were married and remove her rights to gifts that were given to me after we were married?"

The she-goblin nods her head 'yes'.

"And can a Solicitor set up another vault that my wife can use that contains only money and other valuables acquired after we were married."

"Yes Mr. Potter," Kluga answers, "With your permission, a Solicitor can handle all your legal affairs."

Harry smiles at the she-goblin and says, "Then yes, for whatever's the accepted rate, I would be most appreciative if you would act as my Solicitor. And please call me Harry."

Kluga squeals and claps her hands. "You are my first client, sir."

"How old are you if you don't mind me asking."

"I'm seventeen," Kluga bites her lip, "but I've studied all the required texts—thoroughly. Is my age a problem…Harry?"

He smiles and shakes his head, "No. No, problem. The Wizarding World has a habit of forcing its children to grow up much too fast. I'm completely confident you're up to the task."

"I'll immediately start reallocating your property, and all will be ready by the morrow. Mr…Harry, I hope I'm not being too presumptuous, but do you desire to legally divorce your wife, as well?"

Harry gut sinks. Ginny and he shared so much history. As much as he now abhors her, he still loves her; that's what hurts so damn much. But could he ever go back to her. No. He must finally admit that their marriage is irrevocably broken—and has been for some time. At some point during their marriage, the mutual respect and trust between them died. Even if it means losing the love of his in-laws, he can't imagine himself returning to her side as a husband.

"Yes, Kluga. I would like to officially separate from my wife."

"Alright," she nods then lowering her gaze says, "I can owl all necessary correspondence or if you would prefer, I can personally deliver any documents."

"It's up to you," replies Harry.

Continuing to look away, Kluga says, "Since I've never actually been beyond The Warren or Gringotts," her black eyes refocus on Harry, "I would love a chance to see what's out there, in person, not just from a book."

"Then it's settled." Harry beams. "Thanks so much for your help, Kluga. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

Grinning from ear-to-ear, she thanks him too.

Harry ends the call, breathes deeply, and exits the room. Memories of Ginny hit him from every angle. Celebrating an intimate Christmas Eve in the family room. Chasing each other around the house naked. Having make up sex on the kitchen table.

He sighs, glances around one last time, and places his house key on the countertop. Wiping unwelcome tears off his face, he leaves the life he has known for good.

Harry jogs behind his former home to a large storage shed. The building, towered by two black alder trees, is a new structure but was designed in the same style as the Tudor cottage.

After pushing the two hefty rolling doors open, Harry's delighted face takes in the sight.

He had fibbed to George. The weapons inventor had crafted Harry a far superior holster than anything currently available. An arm holster only works with a small wand or with a wand charmed with an easily cancelled shrinking enchantment. A wand in an obvious waist or shoulder holster can be stolen with a simple Accio. Not to mention most holsters aren't protected from damaged that can occur during hand-to-hand combat.

His new ankle holster was a fantastic present, but this—this one was his favorite.

Inside sits an enchanted 1964 Triumph Spitfire convertible. It's been a pet project for the past two years. After Sirius' motorbike was returned to him after the war, Ginny harped about the uncomfortable sidecar. This beauty was the compromise.

With Mr. Weasley's help—Harry's heart pangs thinking about his soon to be ex-father-in-law—it went from being a rusty pile of scrap to being a dazzling showstopper.

Glossy black with chrome detailing. Cream leather upholstery and charcoal trim. The perfect balance of elegance and sportiness.

He loved the car so much that it caused him to break his own rule by leveraging his influence as "The Boy Who Lived" to obtain a proper license from the Ministry. The only caveat was that the automobile needed improved protection against possible Muggle-sightings while in flight.

That's what Mr. Weasley gave him for his birthday, an improved Invisibility Booster. The enhanced booster automatically activates when the vehicle is in use, and it has adjustable settings: Complete, which makes it invisible to everyone outside the cabin, and Muggle, which makes it invisible only to non-magicals. With the upgrade, Harry can now fly the sleek sportster anywhere.

"Good evening, Jinn. Would you like to go for a ride?"

The engine purrs to life and a sweet honk answers.

"How about some fresh air," Harry suggests. The roof retracts and Harry slides into the supple-leather driver's seat.

After clearing any tree cover, Jinn begins to increase in altitude. The crisp evening breeze ruffles Harry's hair. He circles the old Tudor once, before zooming away from the tranquil countryside and towards London.


End file.
